#set a camp fire of safety to return to

[melzula]

Ok hear me out. Reader and Zuko go on a run for supplies .Reader makes a mistakes and almost gets seriously hurt/ near death experience. Zuko gets pissed at reader, maybe yells at her. Reader laughs it off and acts like she doesn’t gaf. Zuko later finds reader all shaken up and crying by herself. Love if you don’t, love if you do!

a/n: ty for requesting and hope you enjoy anon !

summary: zuko apologizes and receives something in return

What was meant to be a simple trip into town for supplies had quickly turned into a disaster, and Zuko believed it was your recklessness to blame.

You’d been too preoccupied in admiring a local merchant’s vast collection of sea shells to notice the Fire Nation soldier creeping up behind you, and if not for Zuko shoving you out of the way to take on the man himself you surely would have been burnt alive. Your failure to stay aware of your surroundings and lackadaisical attitude had almost gotten you killed, and the Prince made sure to point this out to you afterward.

“Are you trying to get yourself killed?!” He scolds you after dragging you out of the marketplace by the arm and back towards camp.

“I was looking at shells, actually, before you so rudely interrupted,” you correct with an impatient roll of your eyes, but the act only seems to annoy him further.

“This isn’t a game, y/n! We didn’t come here to mess around, we came to quickly get more food and go, and we couldn’t even do that because you were too busy looking at stupid shells to notice your surroundings! You could have been hurt or worse!”

“Relax, ‘your highness,’” you dismiss him defensively, harshly yanking your arm away from his grasp. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not dead. I’m fine. You need to stop overreacting and leave me alone!”

Zuko watches with a scowl as you stomp away from him and towards your tent, ignoring the quizzical looks your friends send your way as you shut the flaps closed.

“What’s her problem?” Toph asks with a raised brow from her spot beside the campfire.

“What did you do?” Katara snaps at the boy with an accusatory glare.

“I didn’t do anything!” Zuko exclaims defensively. “As a matter of fact, I just saved her life and now she’s mad at me!”

“Saved her life? What happened out there?” Aang questions with a worried frown. “Was anyone hurt?”

“A Fire Nation soldier snuck up on her while she was distracted and was about to strike before I pushed y/n out of the way and fought him myself.”

“So… what you’re saying is you guys didn’t get any food?” Sokka notes dejectedly only to receive a scolding smack upside the head from his sister.

“If you saved her life, then why is she so upset?”

“I may have been a bit harsh with her after,” Zuko admits reluctantly, awkwardly grasping at the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean to snap at her, but I was just frustrated that she wasn’t taking her own safety seriously.”

“Look, that’s just how y/n is sometimes. She’s too trusting of her surroundings sometimes, but you have to gently remind her to be careful,” Sokka explains to his friend. “Maybe if you hadn’t yelled at her she would have taken you seriously.”

“Just give her some time to cool off and apologize later,” Katara advises the fire bender. “She just needs her space.”

Frustrated, Zuko lets out a long sigh before ultimately relenting. Katara is right. He just needs to give you some space to process before bothering you again.

By nightfall the moon has risen in the sky and the rest of your group has called it a day, retreating to their tents to sleep and rest for whatever tomorrow may bring. You still haven’t set foot out of yours since Zuko yelled at you, and the Prince has spent the better half of his day groveling outside waiting for you to emerge. He’s beginning to grow impatient, but he’s also extremely worried. You missed dinner, and no one has been able to get you to come out.

Deciding enough is enough, Zuko takes it upon himself to barge into your tent and check on you. Better you be mad at him for invading your space without permission than for something to be wrong with you without anyone knowing.

When he enters your tent the last thing he expects to find is your figure curled up in your sleeping bag crying. Your body trembles under the blankets and your quiet sniffles are the only sound in the space. If you notice his presence you don’t acknowledge it, and Zuko hesitates before carefully sitting himself beside you.

“Y/n?” He calls out softly, gently pulling the covers back to get a look at your face. Water marks line across your cheeks from tears that had managed to dry off your skin, and it takes you a moment to finally meet his gaze.

“I’m sorry for making you mad,” you whisper meekly, voice cracking with effort after hours of minimal use.

“No, you don’t have to apologize. I should be apologizing for how I acted,” he assures you sincerely, carefully wiping away your remaining tears. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I was just worried about your safety- I’m not sure what I would have done if something bad had happened to you.”

“You really mean that?” You sniffle, looking up at him with doubt clear in your eyes.

“Of course I do. I know it probably didn’t seem that way when I was yelling at you, but I’ve come to care a lot for you, and I’d hate to see you get hurt.”

“I didn’t know…” you murmur quietly as you carefully sit up from your sleeping bag to reach eye level with the Prince. “I always figured you just saw me as some annoying girl you had to babysit.”

“Well, maybe at first,” he admits with a sheepish chuckle only to immediately stop when he catches your unamused glare, “but now I look forward to being sent to the market with you. I enjoy your company even if it means having to be more vigilant of our surroundings on your behalf. Can you just promise me that next time you’ll be a little more careful?”

“I promise,” you nod earnestly and, much to Zuko’s surprise, pull him in for a tight hug. He stiffens at first, unsure how to react to the close contact, but eventually he’s able to allow himself a chance to enjoy your warmth and reciprocate your embrace.

Only you could have the grumpy Prince wrapped so tightly around your finger.

| zuko tags: @ilovespideyyy @yiyibetch @eridanuswave @lammello @a-monsters-love @taeeemin @livelaughlovekuni @lovialy

[dhampling]

the shepherd, the black sheep gn!reader, 2k

“Oh, come on now. It’s ok. They’ll come back, or they won’t.’ He sidles over and sits next to you. A toothy grin.  ‘It could be worse. We could be here without each other.” - a plummet into a chasm leaves you and your light-fingered friend stuck. together, you wonder if you'll ever emerge again.

word count: 2,054

as always, a big thank you to the nonnie who sent me the prompt: 'Tav/Reader & Astarion get trapped together somewhere during a mission and have to deal with the isolation and anxiety of waiting to be rescued by their other companions' - i hope i did it justice <3

-

He rolls his thumb and forefinger as he casts an absent glare into your makeshift fire. Sniffs. Whets his lips.

“Do you think they’ll come back?” He asks into the open space. 

You’re on the other side of the cavern, triple checking for access points you may have missed on your prior patrols.

It’s been a fraught few days but with the rescue of Halsin came much-needed information. A path to the heart of the Absolute. Finally your journey had a destination, and you’d started to gather momentum in knowing you had a set route to travel.

If Astarion’s revelation had only come a little later there’s no doubt your friends would be clamouring to save you both now.

He knows the camp is wary of him, even more so than before. You made clear in no uncertain terms that anyone unhappy with his vampiric presence was welcome to leave the party as soon as they pleased. He heard the rumbles, the whispers. The staunch distaste for your decision and the following questions on your capacity to make them.

The threat of a power vacuum seems only amplified by your current situation.

Lost in a deep cavern following a fall from a hefty chunk of loose rock, just the two of you. The shepherd, the black sheep. Your companions promising to return but with little by way of a plan to do so. 

It was only your decision to cast Feather Fall prior to crossing that you both survived the plummet.

He is simultaneously overwhelmed with gratitude, and furious beyond measure. 

Overwhelmed to the point of nausea. Deep, horrid nausea that seeps into his bones every time he’s conscious of it. A pounding headache, a splitting skull, a million times ‘why’; the way you reach for his hand in the darkest nights and it feels like a balm. Your neck on a platter. You listen to him and it feels as if the gods finally heard his call.

Incensed - pitifully - because he wishes with hindsight that he’d found a means to stop you casting the spell. He’d finally be dead, somewhere Cazador would never find him; and whatever tale the sordid scars on his back told would rot with him. He’d be left in peace in this cool, damp darkness and nothing would be able to mutilate any part of him again, minus the rats that’d very likely feast on his corpse.

How very funny. It almost seemed a shame to deprive himself of experiencing that one while still having a brain. The irony.

There’s peace here, in the drip-drops and the echoes. An ambience of sorts. A spacious tomb for his undead soul to frolic and haunt for all eternity. Maybe he’d set up his tent so he’d have somewhere for his ethereal spirit to lounge, put the bottles and bedrolls out. He did fall with his pack, after all. 

But you’d be dead, too.

He’d suffer the fall twice. Break his own neck, garrotte himself in unholy witness of whichever reaper came for you. Slam onto the floor of the cavern, repeatedly; until whatever remained of his mangled brain could be assured of your own safety and he could finally fucking die.

Having something to die for.

Now that’s a novel concept.

You amble your way back over to him, rubbing your forearm as you search the darkness mindlessly.

“Don’t know. They’re under no obligation to, I suppose.”

“Easy way to do away with us.” Astarion ponders.

“You might just be right.”

You sink to the floor, wrapping your arms around now-crossed legs and exhaling softly.

“Oh, come on now. It’s ok. They’ll come back, or they won’t.’

He sidles over and sits next to you. A toothy grin. 

‘It could be worse. We could be here without each other.”

When he says this, he expects you to flail your arms and chide him for his ill-timed attempt at humour. Tell him that you’d rather be here with anyone else in camp, that you hate the fact you’re so uncertain as to whether they’re coming back for you. Freak out in the way mortals often do. Reveal all those horrid little doubts over your staunch protection of him that he fears are stewing under the skin.

Instead, you meet his eyes and freely give a small smile. 

“Right again. Making a habit of this.”

“I’ll be careful darling. I wouldn’t want to set expectations now, would I?”

He can tell you’re uneasy, but he doesn’t seem to be the cause. Not remotely. If your body is anything to go by then he’s a solace here for you. 

For some reason, that suspicion makes him feel warmer. 

You look over the packs. You’re unsure how long you’ll be down here, or whether you should be preparing for the worst case scenario where food is concerned; but hunger pangs are worming their way through you already and you’re cursing the single coffee you had back at camp.

You’d like to think your new friends wouldn’t leave you here. Obviously far too optimistic a perspective for someone with a mind flayer parasite currently lodged in their head, but without hope you wager you’d very quickly become completely despondent.

In your mind, either possibility is a very real one. 

Astarion tilts his head to the side to make room for your own atop his shoulder.

The gesture surprises you in its intimacy. Not that you’ve noticed in any way aside from the purely observational, but his desire for physical contact seems relegated to that which is utterly necessary and nothing more.

The nights he has touched you have felt so.

This doesn’t feel necessary.

But it’s welcome, nonetheless.

“What can I do, my sweet? How can we make - this - easier.” He poses with a hint of a playful tone.

“I hope you’re not suggesting what I think you are, Astarion.”

He shakes his head and smiles with mirth.

“No, no. Not unless that was a proposition on your part?”

He turns and looks down at you softly.

“Maybe later. I’m just cold.” You speak with little conviction.

No emotion, just absence. He wonders if you’re actually considering letting him warm you through. A service he finds himself surprisingly willing to offer, wanting to even; his brain struggling to consider it a service when he’d derive such genuine pleasure from burying his icy fingers deep into the valleys of your warm flesh, head reverently planting kisses on your heated belly; holding your blazing torso against his. Tarse twitches. 

Astarion hums.

“I could try to make you something, if you like?”

You scoff, a slight smile returning to your cheeks.

“Thank you, but I’ll decline. Tell me when the last time you cooked was again?”

He errs a little, wobbling his head and gesticulating softly.

“Details, darling, details.”

You both sit in silence for a few moments, undoubtedly thinking the same things. Mulling over the choices that led you here. There’s a fondness, though. A lack of regret. What will be, will be. 

“Was there wine in your pack?” You break the silence. 

His head perks up.

“Fancy a lock-in?” He grins cattishly. 

For the first time since your fall, you smile completely uninhibited.

“Gods, I think so. Not much else to be done, is there?”

-

It’s cosy. 

Inside Astarion’s tent are both bedrolls, plus whatever cushions and blankets you could find within your bags of holding; and copious bottles of wine plucked unceremoniously from the stockpile before heading out.

“I didn’t know if they’d take it as an opportunity to mutiny. Cast me aside, leave me to die. I had to take some of the good stuff with me just in case.” He grins.

“I can’t believe I’m so glad to find out you’ve been stealing from the group’s resources.” You lean back, enjoying the warmth of the fire on your icy flesh.

He scoffs.

“What?! It’s hardly an ongoing pursuit.’

He sips. Lowers his voice.

‘I don’t particularly want to give them more of a reason to stake me.” 

Hearing his resigned tone makes your heart ache a little.

“They’d have to stake me too. I’d move too fast for that, obviously.” You mimic quick gestures with your hands, monk-style. He splutters on his wine. 

“What on earth was that?”

“A demonstration of my battle prowess?”

You chop again with your hands, moving quicker as he folds with laughter.

“The focus in your eyes, darling. It’s remarkable.” He breathes heavily.

“Obviously? I’m ensuring they can’t stake either of us?” 

You commit to the bit, chopping in the space all around you until your companion has tears in his eyes and is gasping for unnecessary breath.

“Thank gods I have a hero like you to protect me, hm? My knight in shining armour.” He practically purrs, wiping the tears and resting on his elbow.

“Just be thankful you’re not the one who has to fight against these hands.” You shake your head and dust them off with exaggerated finesse. 

“I’d feel sorry for the poor bastard who does.”

He likes how absolutely ridiculous you are at this moment. It’s sobering. Two hundred years and he hasn’t seen someone with quite the ability to create a levity like you just brought to the situation.

Your devotion - though used in jest - doesn’t pass him by unnoticed, either.

A beat of silence.

You pour another big goblet of wine and stare into the abyss.

“What if we are just stuck down here?”

He ruminates, running his tongue over his teeth.

“Then we have three options.’

He looks at you.

‘One. We find a way to climb that crag right to the very top.’

You both look up to where he points. Above you, minus some jutting rock, is a chasm as wide as the sky.

‘Two. We repopulate down here somehow and create our very own race of awfully mutilated creatures to fool the gang into thinking it’s someone else they lost down here. We can’t replicate Gale exactly, obviously, but I think they’ll begin to look similar after a couple generations of natural inbreeding.’

You pull a face and shiver. He shrugs.

“Three. We get cosy, and go out happy. There’s nothing we can do from here.”

Astarion lifts his chalice in a moribund toast, gesturing for yours to meet him in the air.

“I’m grateful you’re here.” Your cup clinks against his.

A moment’s silence. 

“I’m grateful it’s you.”

He looks at you once more. 

He could’ve been down here with anyone. Most of them would have staked him immediately. Said the Feather Fall had worn off, that nothing could be done. He’d have been left here, dead, with nobody to remember the only weeks of freedom belonging to him in the last two hundred years of his miserable existence.

But there’s you. There’s always you.

He wonders how you would react. Whether you’d shrug and remain stoic, returning back to the wants of the masses, just another fallen body. Throw some nightshade into the abyss in memory and move on.

Of course you wouldn’t.

“I don’t regret it, you know.” You speak as you sip, still looking up into the cavern’s sky.

“I- Thank you.’

You sit in silence for a few minutes, the drip-drops of the cavern a calm backdrop.

‘Between friends - you’re a little in love with me, aren’t you?”

You swallow a gulp of wine and wobble your head. Gesture lazily into the air around you.

“Not yet, no.”

He moves to object, but is caught mid-breath. 

“We’re doomed anyway. What if I said it? Those three little words?”

You laugh and sip again.

“What the hells. I’d say it back. Hope we live long enough to see it play out.”

Astarion looks at you fondly. There’s a genuine reverence in his eyes, soft and considered; and for the first time you see no barriers. If there’s a future in which the two of you don’t starve to death then he sees you there aside him.

“I love you.”

You bring his palm to your cheek and hold it there for a moment, closing your eyes and nuzzling against it.

“I love you, too.”

He swills the last of his current chalice in his mouth and swallows, bringing your hand to his lips and kissing it reverently.

“Now we drink, and we wait.”

-

[lunarw0rks]

Old Bones | Chapter Three

Summary: After fleeing a toxic relationship, you fear for your safety and hire a bodyguard. He's masked, impassible, and damn good at what he does.

Warning(s): strong language, suggestive language, guns/gun violence, death, gore/medical gore, blood, canon-typical violence

Word Count: 4.1k

A/N: I think this is my fav chapter so far, lemme know what y'all think... sorry if it's medically inaccurate but ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ also the bastard finally has a name !!

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Vaded

“Squeeze trigger slow, don’t forget to breathe.” His fingers are overtaking yours, contorting yours so they’re using the proper form.

Even if you wanted to make a mistake, his frame was caging you in, stomach pressed deeply into the curve of your back. You do just that, firing at the glass jars lined up several feet away. Not a solid hit, but closer than the others.

Simon steps back, lowering the cock of the weapon for you. “You’re hesitating. There’s no time to hesitate or you’re dead.”

“I know that.” You spit back. The fluster of continually missing, as well as being dragged out here nearly every day was getting to you. Not to mention the heat of the sun beating down on you, successfully blinding any shot you take.

“Then do it properly,” He stands near the jars in front of you now, crossing his arms over his chest in impatience. “You think I have time to ponder when I’m holding a gun to someone’s head? I don’t. I shoot first.”

Such a prick—an insufferable prick at that. His words only escalated the sour mood you’d had during this whole morning of make-shift boot camp.

You raise the pistol again, lining up the sights and tracing along his figure being outlined by the rays of sunshine. You exhale like you’d been coached, jerking the sights to the jar closest to him and squeezing the trigger.

The mason jar explodes, laying askew on the pallets he’d set them up on. He doesn’t jump in surprise, or lose his composure.

“Better. You might actually have a chance… If he’s a statue.” His lack of reaction only pissed you off more, practically wiping any form of a smirk you had after your first lucky bullet. You switch the safety back on, for his well-being as much as your own, and toss the iron to him.

He catches it without a second thought, returning it to the sack of weapons he’d brought to train with. A week, and you’d just barely made it to pistols. Not to mention, on your toes the entire time because there’s been nothing but radio silence on your spouse. Not a letter, not a piece of mail, no sign of a tail—nothing.

He begins the drive back from the countryside, somewhere about an hour out of town where none of the trigger pulls would be heard. His eyes are glued to the unpaved road in front of him, as usual. One hand on the top of the wheel, and the other taking up the entirety of his center console, leaving you little room to breathe.

“I’d say, you’re ready to carry one.” Simon’s words nab your attention. “Just don’t shoot at me again, or you’re shit out of luck.”

You don’t doubt the power of carrying, but it’s new nonetheless.

Perhaps his harsh feedback held weight, and you ‘might’ have a chance in hell of defending yourself. Might—as in, nearly none at all.

Thank the stars for that insufferable prick, then, because whether you want to admit it or not, his services are needed.

—

The weight of the piece is something you’ll have to get used to.

You refused the hip holster, to Simon’s annoyance, of course. Instead, it’s going to remain tucked into your waistband, the icy metal of the .38 revolver digging into the soft flesh of your tailbone.

He’s in the shower now, where he usually spends about two minutes anyways, despite you packing now. Bullets were your words now, if necessary. This situation was past legalities, or forms, or numbing and intrusive questions in the courtroom.

Three sharp pounds on the front door, and you’re already at your feet. The shower shuts off, and Simon has walked out with a towel concealing his waist and already started for the door.

“Wait.” You’re looking through the peephole only greeted with the sight of a badge and an impatient officer. Simon steps back a bit, watching the encounter from the hallway as droplets run down his frame.

Once you’ve opened the door, the officer holds out some sort of form. The prospect of an officer at your door has prevented you from hearing his introduction or caring to take a look at the badge. The only words that find you are ‘husband’ and ‘defamation’.

He doesn’t bother to let you respond, just shoves the form onto the entry table and gives Simon a sickened glare. At first glance, probably thinking Simon is your side piece showering off after a night of adultery.

The officer has retreated down the steps of the complex, leaving you unable to process anything. Simon doesn’t say a word, just retreats to his room to finish dressing, as if there wasn’t almost a dead cop laying in the foyer.

Your hands shiver as you skim through the document, seated at the kitchen table. You couldn’t believe the bastard—cops and judges already on his payroll, coming up with some bogus claim of defamation—all while you’re left with no evidence of the latter.

He’s returned quickly, resting his palms on the table as he soaks in the information. “You’re not going to that trial.” The paper is taken from your fingers, forcing you out of your discomposure.

“I’ll go to prison if I don’t show, Simon.” You respond quickly, wondering what the hell he’s getting you roped into.

“No, you’ll be dead.” He leads, the palms on the table turning to tight fits. “Once you’re in the courtroom, he’ll have access to you, or whatever shitty motel you’ll be staying in for months. You’re not going.” His commands are nearing that of a hardened soldier.

“This is my life you’re talking about. I can’t just pack up and run from the federal government. He’s not going to kill me, he’s going to try and put me in jail, then throw away the key.” Your tone has heightened, but his hasn’t.

He takes a few steps back from the table as if trying not to blow his top. “You’re hiding out in a shitty apartment, sobbing in the middle of supermarkets, and you’re confident in that assessment?”

“If he wanted you in jail, he would’ve planted evidence on you. I’ll repeat myself. You’re not going.” Simon sighs sharply, trying to calm himself again. “We need to get out of this apartment for now, before more police poke around and find you packing heat.”

The lack of decor, luggage still in the corner, non-perishables you’d bought—all for the inevitable moment he finds you. That moment was here, and now you were packing it all away. Somehow the place looked less pitiful with it all packed away and stuffed into his backseat.

—

You were somewhere in the countryside, only in the opposite direction of the shooting range you were at that morning. He hadn’t stopped once during the long ride and wasn’t planning to. You were in a small town before you knew it—someplace you’d never heard of, and probably with a population that doesn’t reach triple digits.

The barren landscape you were passing in the near forties seemed to continue forever. The endless crop and winding paths would provide cover, but the scenarios playing in your head depicted worse.

The entirety of the town was in a cluster—a few gas pumps, a motel, a pharmacy, and a diner—all of which much older than you’d been alive, visibly decaying under years of neglect.

His truck rolled to a stop, parking in the empty lot of the motel. You two seemed to be the only ones rooming in this apocalyptic townlet, and you were grateful for that, at least. He retreated into the office and returned holding a key to your room.

You climbed out, retrieving the duffel that had your entire life packed into it. His bag of weapons was slung over his shoulder, and he carried it as if the weight had no effect. He’d stayed quiet the whole trip, and it continued well into entering the shared space.

Two beds, a bathroom, and a kitchenette. Nicer than you expected, albeit the exterior painted a different picture earlier.

Your stiff limbs freed themselves when you sprawled out on the bed you claimed, remaining in disbelief of the situation at hand. You were on the run again, but this time not from him—from the law. How long could this go on? Living in motels, with an overbearing male roommate? Especially one without a sense of humor; the spiteful cherry on top.

He closed the curtains with a jerk, forcing you to stare at the dated floral pattern they had, instead of the secluded view outside. There was no time for error, especially when it was someone other than the law to figure out you’d skipped town.

Just when you’ve begun to close your eyes, he’s loudly rifling through the luggage sitting on the floor, muttering curses under his breath. You sit up in bed in a huff, glaring into his back. Finally, he pulls out the bottle of Kentucky, pouring himself a generous glass, before thumping it down onto the faux-granite counter.

“Seriously?” You sigh, sitting yourself up on your arms.

He takes a few seconds, savoring the burn running down his throat. “Gonna need it. Helps me focus.”

“We’ll need to pick up a few things at that pharmacy, so get up.” There’s no chance in hell he’s leaving you here alone, despite the store only being a few blocks away. Bickering only greeted you with an icy glare, so you grumbled to your feet, slipping into the jacket you’d removed only minutes before.

In usual fashion, he’s a few steps behind you, watching the few people that are out and about at the moment, most of which are retirement age.

You’re inside the pharmacy now, practically tapping your foot at him as he grabs the supplies you two might need. More non-perishables as well as a small kit used for camping. It was clear to you this little “road trip” wasn’t going to end soon—and he was quite used to being on the run.

As soon as he’s placed the bills on the checkout counter, you’ve exited the store, nearly skipping back to his truck. He begins the short drive back, but his eyes keep darting between the rearview mirror and over his shoulder.

“We have a tail.” He snarls, continuing to divert further from town. “I’m gonna make sure we lose it.”

His words make your hairs stand, whatever the hell he meant by that was nothing pretty. He was getting further from town, so whatever his plans were needed absolutely no witnesses.

“Gun?” You ask, looking over your shoulder at the black Mercedes creeping closer.

He nods, still frantically assessing his four corners. The road signs have disappeared again, and you’re back to crops and trucking warehouses. You lift yourself off the seat a bit, retrieving the revolver you previously had tucked away. You check the cylinder, indeed seeing six bullets loaded inside—bullets he’d filed X’s into the tips himself—they “blew a nastier hole” that way, according to him.

It’s in your lap now, as you bounce around from his speed increase. The tail does the same, nearly bumper to bumper with his trunk now. Simon diverts, trying to ensure it can’t clip it, but the unpaved road before you is already unsteady enough when you’re going straight.

The Mercedes clips into the side of his truck, but the size difference between the cars only causes it to swerve. Simon turns abruptly, making the tail believe he’s taking a right. In reality, he swerves left, causing the confused driver to go straight into the metal fence lining the road.

You only see the wreckage briefly; crushed hood, steam rising from the hood, and no further movement from the driver.

He slams the brakes, pulling off to the side. He pulls out his much larger caliber pistol, slamming the truck door behind him. He’s gone to make sure he finishes the job.

Your fingers find the lock button, about to hear that click, when the passenger door is whipped open, and you’re face down in the gravel before you know it. Your gun is askew somewhere, having been ripped from your hands.

The assailant's fingers dig into your scalp, forcing you to kneel on the sharp pebbles. He’s surely one of the men your husband hired. His nose is busted, and there are small shards of glass embedded in his face that he’s too determined to mind.

This was the moment fate caught up with you, just like you’d thought it would. Either with you dead in your apartment, or staring down the barrel of a gun like you are now—disarmed and on your knees execution-style.

He cocks it, pressing the metal into your temple.

The unmistakable crack of a gunshot echoes through the countryside, causing both of you to jump in surprise. Had Simon been ambushed? Was he already bleeding out in the dirt?

He seems to think the same, a lordly smirk spreading, revealing his bloodied teeth. You snap your eyes to the stars above you. His leer is not going to be the last thing you see—the night sky would be.

The ring in your ears is louder than the gunshot itself. Warm sprinkles have splattered across you now, dripping down your neck. But you’re not dead. Not clenching a bullet hole either. You have to look down to be sure, examining your body with sanguine hands.

Instead, it’s the man with a hole in his head crumbled in front of you, still your pistol in his dead fingers. The ringing subsides, but your eardrums are muffled slightly like you’ve just had your head underwater.

“Bastard got me,” Simon stumbles back, making you sigh in relief, “—came out of the fuckin’ backseat, didn’t see him.” He’s sputtering, putting a flat palm against the stab wounds on his stomach, while the other is against the door of the truck.

You use the truck for support as well, feeling the stray pebbles that were still digging into your knees, not to mention the crimson seeping into the fabric of your clothes, sticking to you. You snatch your pistol back, stuffing it back into your waistband.

He’s barely upright now. An uncanny sight at best, seeing him struggle to hold his own weight.

“We need to… Clean this up…” He takes his palm off the truck, but it’s returned when he nearly stumbles again. He’s fighting himself, forcing himself to be the one in charge here. Simon glowers down at his abdomen, lifting the saturated fabric. It’s worse than you expected, not in the deepness of the punctures, but how much blood he lost in the scuffle.

You can tell he wants to speak, to give you some sort of instruction, but the pants coming from him are too severe. He slides down the truck, leaning against the large tire for support. He’s gone even paler than usual—you can tell through the eyes of his mask.

His chest is rising and falling rapidly, at least. But it won’t be soon if you don’t do something.

It’s a blur; grunting and using all your might to put the dead man into the bed of the truck. You open the door to the backseat, finding the foil blanket in the camping kit Simon bought. You cover the bed, so his corpse looks like nothing more than a lump of firewood, or hay, or something other than what it is.

The skinny flashlight finds its way between your teeth, as you scoop and kick the dirt around to cover up the blood. The storm clouds forming are your only hope of washing away any evidence of this bloodbath. You shine the light on the side of the car, where some of the splatter had cast. You wipe it away with your sleeve, leaving only small traces of it.

Finally, it shined on him. A half-conscious Simon, who you can barely lift into the truck. He gives a little way, but your arms are putty by the end of the ordeal. He’s slumped in the seat, and you haven’t bothered to buckle him in.

You climb inside the driver’s seat, reversing quickly to make it back to the motel. The lack of guests will make patching him up easier, but the prospect of what unfolded is not providing much comfort. You’re speeding down the strip of unpaved road, eventually greeted by the few street lights illuminating the town.

You slow when you reach the parking space, claiming the one directly across from your room, so transporting Simon is easier. Luckily, the few residents that live there have retreated in for the night, leaving no prying eyes around.

You palm his pockets, locating the room key. There’s no time for slippery fingers or trembling hands. You make way for yourself and him by opening the door first, then pulling him out of the truck. He’s putting as much weight on himself as he can, but you’re left to do most of the literal heavy lifting.

Simon was otiosely dropped onto his bed, left to writhe only for a few seconds while you grabbed the rest of the camping kit from the backseat. When you return and lock the doors behind you, you’re quick to dig through the luggage for pieces of clothing. Ones you can put underneath his torso to prevent the mess his wounds are going to make.

You fish the knife he kept in his pocket out, cutting through the soaked t-shirt fabric. It glides off easily, allowing your amateur eyes to feast on the punctures. They aren’t deep, clearly not done with enough force to do serious internal damage, but there’s enough for the blood loss to be his biggest problem.

Simon must’ve finished him off before he could rough him up more—you could tell by how jagged the last stab was—like the man’s blade had been ripped away hastily.

“The bourbon…” He murmurs, bringing the bottle to your attention. Something you’ll be able to use. The self-medication that was slowly killing him might just be his saving grace.

You zip to the counter, unscrewing the cap from the bottle. He nods his head, bracing himself like he’s been through his a hundred times. He probably has, for all you know. The fawn-tinted liquid sizzles at his wounds, both disinfecting and irritating the reddened, puffy flesh.

He’s gritting his teeth under the mask, clenching one of the towels you laid out for dear life. Still, handling the pain better than you expected. You, on the other hand, were minutes from spewing.

The blood was coming out faster than you could keep up with, and no matter how many times you dug through that camping kit, it was only small bandages and ointment. You had no choice, you had to get to that pharmacy.

First, you’re hunched over the sink, scrubbing away the crimson coating you. You take off your jacket, ridding yourself of your bloodied clothes. One of his hoodies will have to do, and it will cover the remnants remaining in your hair. From how squeamish the sight was making you, you could swear you were paler than the man actively bleeding out.

Next, you’re out the door again, darting down the slick streets. Those storm clouds you saw earlier had begun to rain down on you. Good for the crime scene miles away, but not for your joints. That taste of blood, pinching in your side as you forced yourself to keep going, closing in on the pharmacy eventually.

Heaving in the first-aid aisle, grabbing any sterile gauze you see, then a box of gloves. Of course, the selection is limited. The townsfolk probably aren’t playing mob doctor like you are right now.

Once you’ve made uneducated guesses on what to get, it’s like you’re reminded of the dying man in your hotel room. There’s no time to pay, and no active cameras—no time to question the logistics of it all. Besides, the geriatric clerk barely gave you a passing glance when you stormed inside.

You’re out the back door, looping around the building until you’re back on the sidewalk again, racing with the supplies hooked under your arm. You’ve only been away minutes, but those were precious minutes where he could’ve hemorrhaged even more.

The rain putters heavily, coating your lashes like it did in the parking lot of the supermarket, daring you to stumble in disorientation.

You fiddle with the key, nearly kicking the door down when it struggles. It gives way eventually, and you’ve slammed it, already sitting on the edge of the bed. He kept a hand on his wounds while you were away, luckily, but he’s starting to slip again.

You peel Simon’s large fingers away, then look at the supplies before you. You rush to the sink and sterilize your fingers, darting your gaze from the sink back to him.

You look down at it—the engagement ring you haven’t been able to take off all this time.

“Fuck it.” You mutter, tearing it off your finger. It clatters somewhere in the sink, and you leave it there to get back to Simon. You tear the cardboard encasing the gloves, slipping them onto your trembling fingers—partially from the cold rain, as well as the know-nothing decisions you’re going to make to treat him.

Stitches are out of the question, so you’re going to have to pack the wounds—something you've seen on a medical show once. You unravel the roll of gauze, cutting off small sections of it with the knife, and then get to work.

He’s lucky he’s knocked out because he’d probably cringing right now—from your medical care, not your fingers digging around at his wounds.

You loop the bandage around your index finger, trying to recall the steps. You push it deep enough to prevent it from bleeding through, stuffing the gashes in a zig-zag pattern. One by one, you move to the next wound until they’re all packed.

If these stabs had been any deeper, there would be two bodies in the bed of the truck right now—one of which would be the owner. Opportunely, they hadn’t bled through the gauze so far.

The exhaustion caught up with you quickly, but you were determined to keep an eye on him. Without him, you were screwed, plain and simple. He wasn’t going to die and leave you with this unexplainable mess, one that he got you into when he took you on this hellacious joyride.

—

You must’ve dozed sometime in the night because the sunrise was peaking through the gaps of the curtains when your eyes opened. Not to mention, Simon was shoving you away from him, grunting as he was finally able to sit up.

He peered down at the evidence of the unpractised medical attention you’d given him. His fingers found the bottle of Kentucky still on the nightstand, and he took a slug from it, feeling the tension release a little bit.

The sight of the room surprised him a bit—the medical supplies and luggage thrown around, the clothing laid out below him, and not to mention the blood still dried on your fingers.

He finds his footing, despite the frazzled expression you’re maintaining. He’s been here before, in fact, been closer to death many times. This was nothing to Simon—“just a scratch” as he’d say. He grabs one of the only clean shirts left, slipping it on to cover himself.

After he’s taken another drink, he turns to you, standing above you with authority. This was no longer a game of cat and mouse, it was past that now. He had bigger problems, like the corpse in the bed of his truck, and the prospect of more of those men coming.

He finally finds the words when he sees you’re no longer wearing your ring. “What’s this bloke's name, the one who sent his dogs on us?”

You shake your head in confusion, but his clenched jaw is persistent and only going tighter. You’re forced to swallow the lump forming in your throat. You, too, can tell things are changing, and it’s become more personal for Simon than he’d like to admit.

 You utter his name, as he’s forced you to reveal it. “Cal. His name is Cal.”

He takes a sharp inhale, taking in the information. The hands that were resting at his sides have now turned to fits. “After we take care of that problem in the back of my truck, we’re gonna find this bastard.” You could swear steam would be coming out of his ears by now.

He grabs his truck keys off the table and starts towards the door, growling something under his breath that you didn’t make out,

“I’m gonna find this bastard…”

TAGLIST: @random-thot-generator @littleobsessionsandlifeslessons @illyanam1011

[atrwriting]

chapter sixteen: control -- aemond x highborn!reader

i have been re-inspired. hehe

what does everyone think of the new season??

share ur thoughts and lets rant together

and let's celebrate with a new installment for this fic ;) happy reading everyone -- thanks for sticking with this story after so long :)

barely edited yuh

as always, warnings: no smut, misogyny, pregnant reader, weapons

chapter sixteen...

"are you..." you began, swallowing, closing and unclosing your fists by your side. "...are you angry with me, aemond?"

he did not answer you. he sat by the fire, staring into the flames, and unfazed by your words. you had only seen him like this a few times, but this was the first time you had ever believed it could be because of your actions.

in your head, you knew there was cause for his anger if it was directed at you. you were a woman, a princess by marriage, during a time of war because, and, as they believed, a woman who did not know her place. you could've scoffed, thrown a remark — but where would that get you? you had done the exact thing they were afraid of — acted like their greatest enemy.

obviously these men were wrought with sexism, and you knew it was wrong. you didn't want to marry into the family because of it, but somehow you had found where you comfortably fit and could chew and swallow the bits you did not care for. down, down, down they went — buried deep, and you hoped they would never unearth themselves. unfortunately, here they were: not letting you or the babe rest. you expected this from the king, his mother, his grandfather, and everyone else...

but aemond? not aemond. not him, your husband — your sweet, sweet husband of all people.

and still, he did not answer. you chewed on your bottom lip as you gaze flickered between the back of his head and the flames. the night's events had turned sour because of your bold actions, and you knew you shouldn't make it a habit... but here you were, in the safety and privacy of your own with your husband.

one more time wouldn't hurt... you hoped.

hope had gotten you this far...

you glided over towards your husband and where he sat, and sank to your knees. you placed one palm over each of his knees as you peered up at him. his jaw was set and tightened as he glanced down his nose at you. there was not an ounce of warmth in his gaze, but you could not return that emotion. your head was dipped, almost bowed, as you stared up at your husband with your large dark eyes.

"please," you pled, voice cracking. "please talk to me."

"you did enough talking back there for both of us, princess," he spat. "it would not please you to do it again?"

your eyebrows scrunched at his words. "he insinuated i was dirty, and in turn the babe in my belly. your son. our son."

"i know what he said," he spat. "he was arrested for it."

"then make me understand, husband, please..." you asked softly. "i can't — i can't stand the thought of you upset with me."

"you were not thinking about that then, why should i grant you the care you ask for now?" he spat once more.

you stood at that, fists bawled at your side. "because i came back for you, aemond. if this baby died — we could have another, but i can't have another you."

he scoffed, standing also and glaring down at you. "and yet we just might have another rhaenyra in this camp."

"how dare you!" you hissed. "I am nothing like her! — she tried to pawn me off to her son — as if I were cattle! as if i don't have your babe in my belly!"

he stepped closer to you, fire brewing in his eyes. "yes, her son — the sweet, kind, and honorable jacaerys velaryon who you would've rode off into the sunset with once my brother and i, and our line, were crisp from his dragon's fire. the bastard boy who tormented me when we were younger, and stood by and watched as his brother took my eye! am i to believe you weren't even slightly tempted by their offer?"

your face fell at his words and your lip trembled. "i did not come back for the man who is acting like the spitting image of his grandsire. I thought you would be impressed that i had sacrificed as much as I did — practically falling from a tower, running from that menace daemon, and stealing a dragon — but i see now that you and your family do not hate rhaenyra; you hate all women that show that they have as strong of stones as a man does. the man i love, the man i risked death for, then man who was impressed with my knife skills, would not hurl these insults at me — not when I was gone for so long, presumed dead. i came back for my aemond, the father of my child, the father i want the son in my belly to look up to, to cherish, to honor — but you are not him."

aemond did not respond. he titled his head upwards, and glared down his nose at you. you felt small, and full of shame. you didn't understand why — you had no reason to, but you couldn't help it. you felt as dirty as the lord hand had insinuated you were.

unclean. impure. rotten.

fucking soiled.

you swallowed, casting your gaze towards the ground. "i was taken against my will, but the man i loved left by choice. i sacrificed everything to come back, but your pride will not allow you to do the same."

you left the tent, and he did not follow.

the leaves crunched underneath your feet as you stalked away from your tent — well, your husband's tent. your womanhood prevented you from having anything being yours, even shared. you scoffed openly then, as tears threatened to leak from your weary and tired eyes. your gaze hung low, like your head — coupled in shame, guilt, regret, anger... they all welled, swirled, and filled the space inside you until it was hard to swallow.

you scoffed at the thought. you may have loved aemond, but you knew a conversation like that would not be happening at dragonstone. peace, love, and happiness there for young lovers — but not here. you didn't know if you regretted your decision.

you did know that if you stayed a moment longer in that castle — daemon targaryen would've given you another reason to want to leave. you shook off feelings of regret — fake equality was worse than sexism in some ways.

and that's how you found yourself in the training yard of the camp. you immediately picked up daggers, eyeing the fighting dummy. a few slashes here and there — that was enough for you to lose yourself in the groove.

there was no sexism in the night, when all the men slept.

you scoffed at the thought, swiping at your faux opponent.

"you could gut him with that blade," a voice in the distance spoke.

you whipped around to face the owner of the voice. ser cole, who stood a few yards away. you straightened at the sight of him, acknowledging his presence. you clenched your jaw before turning back around to the dummy. you heard his footsteps approach.

"there are two men that come to mind," you mumbled.

"careful, princess." while an honest warning, you heard the smile in his voice.

you turned to face him, jaw clenching. "i regret... my outburst, but i do not regret my words."

"it is not for me to have an opinion on the words of a princess," he responded.

you shifted your weight from one foot to the other. "you're probably the only person who's opinion i wouldn't despise, even if it differed from my own, ser cole."

his jaw clenched then, gaze averting to the ground and then back to your face. "would you like to hear my opinion from a year ago on whether women should wield knives, princess?"

you chuckled. "please, ser cole."

"I would have found it improper," he replied, evenly.

you sighed and nodded your head. "and now?"

"necessary."

you laughed sadly at that. "thank you, ser cole... i find myself in almost in better spirits."

you began to turn back around before he spoke once more.

"the prince did not fair well in your absence, princess," he gushed. "the lord hand... considered him... distracted."

you cast your gaze to the floor as realization hit you. "so the hand blamed me... even upon my return."

ser cole's silence was enough of an answer for you.

"the things we do for love," you scoffed, shaking your head. your knives fell from your hands and hit the ground with a thud as tears began to prick at your eyes. "you are lucky that aches of the heart will not torment you into fighting a dummy in the dead of the night like my pathetic self."

"i am a stranger to love now, princess... but there was a time when it plagued me as well."

you glanced up at him then, offering him a small, sad smile. "my apologies... i did not know."

he shook his head, gripping the handle of his sword in his belt. "you didn't, but she did. she knew what she wanted, and it wasn't what i could offer her."

you stared at him, an open book for him to write his secrets on. you never considered him a confidant, but you were desperate for the approval of any man in power at the camp to think you were better than you felt — to wash away the stained words of the lord and your lord husband. you weren't dirty. you weren't soiled. you weren't impure, unworthy, or ruined. you were a woman — a wife and a mother, filled with love and rage and everything that came with it. you demanded respect, fought tooth and nail for it — but ser cole gave it willingly. you were grateful, almost too eager for the washing away of otto hightowers words that felt like sins. so you nodded, signaling for ser cole to continue.

"my offer wasn't enough for her." sadness caused ser cole to glance off into the distance and fold his lips underneath each other. his past appeared to torment him behind his eyes, and you wanted to comfort him, as you would with anyone... but you didn't know how. he was not your husband... barely a friend. fortunately, he continued, "but that is not the case here. it is not easy to be a woman in your position... and still you choose it, over everything."

tears welled in your eyes at his words. with each word, ser cole seemed to be as surprised that he was saying this to you as he was surprised to believe it. he continued, "no matter how difficult the challenge is, your loyalty does not waver. you are true to the prince, even now."

your eyes burned with anguish and sadness, but you swallowed it at the kindness ser cole had showed you. "t-thank you, ser cole. i don't think any words of mine can express how much i appreciate you saying that."

he gave you a curt nod then. "you should know, princess... i wouldn't mind hearing your opinions, even if we differed, because i doubt we would disagree."

you wiped at your tears and laughed. you smiled sadly at him, when you spotted a head of white walking towards you and the knight. your eyes darted past the knight, and you straightened. ser cole read your body language, and followed in suit.

"my prince," ser cole greeted, assuming the position.

aemond stood next to the knight, but kept his attention on you. "thank you for ensuring my wife's safety, ser cole. please — leave us."

the knight bowed his head before sending you a quick, knowing look. you looked on his leave with sadness before your eyes barely glossed over your husband's form. you turned back towards the dummy.

"you ignore your husband after he goes looking for you?" he asks, walking toward you.

you scoffed. "please go to bed, husband. your days are long with war approaching."

he stopped a foot away from you. "with the baby's arrival approaching, you should be in bed as well."

you shook your head, ignoring him. how dare he, after everything he said? when you did not respond, he stepped closer to you. any closer, and he would be getting the way of you and your knives.

"he survived on the back of a dragon," you spat, keeping your gaze on the dummy. "you insult him with your words."

"as stubborn as his mother, he is, then," he replied. "and that's why you should rest."

you whipped around to face him then. his words hit you, but you did not absorb them. you couldn't believe them, nor trust him.

the hardness had left your husband's expression then. anger had left him like you had those weeks or months ago — you couldn't keep track. his lips parted, whereas they were pressed into a thin line when he was focused and angry. his glare was no longer hardened, as his stare was not a glare at all. there was not warmth in his eye, no... but there was chill. you thought back to cole's words, about aemond not fairing well without you — and realized that the lack of warmth in aemond's eyes was that he felt cold, especially without you.

"i will when you tell me what i asked to hear," you compromised.

he clenched his jaw, and did not answer for a few moments. when you eyed him, he sighed and averted his eyes from yours. tossing and turning with the words in his head, he finally returned his gaze to you. "you were right... about my pride. i was angry with you because you said what i never felt like i could."

you swallowed his words after they hit you. it was bittersweet; the triumph of being right, but also how damning being right could be.

the bitterness overpowered any sugar. it swirled within you like a sour herb, not quite ripe yet. you sucked in your cheeks slightly at the faux taste and mulled over your words.

"I am not the type of woman that gains satisfaction from proving her husband wrong," you spat. "i just wanted you be... proud of me, and least of all happy to see me."

he immediately reached to grab your face then, and you dropped your knives. the prince pressed his cold hands to your blushed cheeks, and you sucked in a sharp breath. his eye was cold, focused, and almost angry. for the second time that evening, the prince was angry because of your words.

"i almost burned the entirety of the seven kingdoms to the ground in your absence!" he spat, hands shaking with angst. "and then, somehow, though impossible — you descend into camp on the back of a dragon! my wife, my sweet, wife — saving our son, my person, and my — our line, in the process. i would've killed every last man, woman, child just to see you again! how dare —"

you didn't let him finish. you pushed yourself to your toes, and kissed him. almond's hands gripped your waist, pulling you towards him as you pressed your hands to both of his cheeks. your tongues tangled with each other as you lost yourself in him and his embrace.

"words would not be able to convey how much I missed you, husband," you weeped. "you were the only thing that got me through my days there. every time i feared falling from the rope — all i could think about was you. i needed to get back to you, and only you."

he kissed you then, smiling. "as it was made apparent, my heartache proved to be as much of a liability to my grandsire. you and i — we are stronger together."

you sobbed at his words, going to press your lips to his once more. he gave you a small peck before he pulled away, much to your dismay.

"that is why i have decided to allow you to train and fight," he spoke. "we will be by each other's sides. as warriors."

your heart welled with happiness and satisfaction, but you couldn't help but ask, "do you not fear for the baby?"

"i do, but his mother has shown that she can protect him better than anyone." aemond began to cry then, and you went to wipe away his tears. "attempting to place you in a box was wrong. i thought that if you were close enough, i could save you if something happened, but when i sent you away... that was when i lost you. i trusted others to take care of my wife, to place her far from battle, when i should've kept her by my side. i will not make that mistake again. i want you by my side, my love. we are stronger together.”

“together,” you repeated, tears filling your eyes. you stared up at your husband in awe, unable to fight the smile that spread across your face. “together — through fire and blood.”

"through fire and blood."

[workingclasshistory]

On this day, 20 April 1914, the Ludlow massacre took place when US troops opened fire with machine guns on a camp of striking miners and their families in Ludlow, Colorado. 12,000 miners had gone out on strike the previous September against the Rockefeller family-owned Colorado Fuel and Iron Corporation (CF&I) following the killing of an activist of the United Mine Workers of America (UMWA). They then demanded better safety at work, and to be paid in money, instead of company scrip (tokens which could only be redeemed in the company store). The Rockefellers evicted the striking miners and their families from their homes, and so they set up "tent cities" to live in collectively, which miners' wives helped run. Company thugs harassed strikers, and occasionally drove by camps riddling them with machine-gun fire, killing and injuring workers and their children. Eventually the national guard was ordered to evict all the strike encampments, and the morning of April 20 they attacked the largest camp in Ludlow. They opened fire with machine guns on the tents of the workers and their families, who then returned fire. The main organiser of the camp, Louis Tikas, went to visit the officer in charge of the national guard to arrange a truce. But he was beaten to the ground then shot repeatedly in the back, killing him. That night, troops entered the camp and set fire to it, killing 11 children and two women, in addition to 13 other people who were killed in the fighting. The youngest victim was Elvira Valdez, aged just 3 months. Protests against the massacre broke out across the country, but the workers at CF&I were defeated, and many of them were subsequently sacked and replaced with non-union miners. Over the course of the strike 66 people were killed, but no guardsmen or company thugs were prosecuted. More information, sources and map: https://stories.workingclasshistory.com/article/9243/ludlow-massacre Pictured: a striker's family in front of their tent https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=612124227627463&set=a.602588028581083&type=3

[shiorimakibawrites]

Congratulations on your 300 followers Shiori!!! ❤️🎉🎉 You definitely deserve all the love!!

For my request I'd like to do an Inside the Mind and request a headcanon for camping with Frank. I just imagine the man loves camping and I'd love to hear what you think camping with him would be like!

Thank you Bella!

Here are your HCs about Frank and camping

Frank loves camping.

Out in nature, he can relax some of that hypervigilance. More so in less popular camping locations but even in those, there are far less people for him to threat-assess and keep track of.

The dangers of the wilderness (weather, wild animals, etc) just doesn’t tickle his paranoia the same way that people do. Maybe because there isn’t any real malice? The bear is just hungry. That sudden heavy downpour wasn’t personal (unless Thor or Storm was nearby).

That being said, Frank is fully aware that nature doesn’t have to be malicious to kill you.

Now if it was just his own neck he was risking, he might have got somewhere with few supplies and relying entirely on his Marine Corp survival training.

But since it was you (and your kids if you have any), he’s a lot more cautious. There is a lot more planning - no spur of the moment camping trips when he has to worry about someone else’s safety during it.

There is a list of necessary supplies. And his truck isn’t moving until that list has been checked, then rechecked.

The emergency kit is something else. Frank tried to balance his paranoia (which wanted everything for every possible scenario) and the knowledge he could only haul so much stuff in the woods without it becoming more of hindrance than a help.

Some of the things like compasses, water-purification tablets, extra fire-making supplies are duplicated so everyone is carrying some in case they get separated from the group. Or something else happens and you lose some of your other supplies. Basically making sure not all the eggs are in one basket.

Frank is careful to make sure that food is properly stored and disposed of. Particularly if you are camping in bear country.

Frank doesn’t think he can fight a bear and win. But he does think he could do damage. “I’ve fought Red. Bears can’t be that much of a pain in the ass.”

The decision between sleeping in a tent or renting a cabin depends on a lot of factors. When and where you are going. Health concerns of the people he’s camping with.

Frank can set up and break down a tent impressively fast. Though he has much trouble convincing the tent to pack small enough to be returned to its case as anyone. He has given up on sleeping bags.

Frank likes to camp somewhere with a lake. Because he enjoys fishing. It taps into the same calm headspace he uses for snipping but more peaceful? His version of mediation is sitting on his chair or a log, his finger resting on the cast-out line, watching the lake. The reflections of the water, the ducks doing their thing, the birds in the trees, even the squirrels barking at him from the branches. He finds it soothing.

Frank also likes a good hike, taking in the views and seeing what wildlife he can spot.

He might have confidence about his ability to handle a bear but is less certain of a moose. They are a lot bigger than he was expecting.

[strxnged]

TIGHNARI: # the roots of ambition.

CHAPTER IV. In which Tighnari saves your life, and you make an important discovery.

Word count. 2.3k. Genre. Found family, gn!reader.

Table of Contents. / Final chapter.

Tighnari had no intention of taking the search party with him to save you. He’d been there when the two of you processed the results of the previous study; following your disappearance, it hadn’t taken him long to ascertain your plan. He wasn’t about to go in without a safety net prepared, however.

“If I find them,” he told the Forest Rangers he'd arranged for help, “wait for my signal before you retrieve us from the Withering Zone. Don’t put yourselves in danger to help me save them.”

It was clear—too clear—that you meant to study healthy saplings in mycelium affected by The Withering. It was so obvious that Tighnari wanted to slap himself for not understanding sooner. With your research you hoped to find a treatment for Eleazar. You’d been pushing yourself to your limits to break through them. To save yourself, and everyone else affected, before it took you, too. He’d been so blind even to your Eleazar at first—it took the sight of your clumsy, paled fingertips before he had realized your condition. Even after you began to exhibit abnormal fatigue, he let you lie to him. Archons, he should have been more protective, but he knew it was against his nature to tend to someone that much. Perhaps he’d already done so—perhaps he’d scared you off with his watchful eyes. Yet he could not help that. He cared, and he was not going to altogether hide that for your comfort. Especially not now.

The closest Withering Zone, Tighnari saw, was too close to Gandharva Ville for comfort. After he inspected the area, he returned to his group. “Flag this area as a priority. I’ll come back here to deal with it once we get things straightened out.”

He searched the next Withering Zone to no avail, and rejuvenated with his group before continuing to the next area. Archons, if he felt this drained after a few minutes in a Withering Zone, he couldn’t imagine your state…

They travelled on. Withering Zone after Withering Zone, he listened, smelled, and watched for traces of you. He knew he would find you if he kept looking. But his own physical resources had been depleted by the end of the day, and if he went into another Withering Zone it would not be so easy for him to come out again. The party set up camp.

In the first Withering Zone they came to the next morning, Tighnari saw a dull figure knelt near the tumour. He could not get closer, however, as Ruin creatures began to attack him.

“Scorching Ajilenakh!” he hissed as The Withering mounted its draining effect on his body. He fired his bow at the monsters, managing to weaken their attacks as he led them away from you.

Quickly his stamina decreased, and with a hesitant glance at you, he lunged out of the Withering Zone to recover. The monsters followed him, but it was easier to slay them here. “This better be the last of you brutes.”

Launching the last of his attacks, he took a deep breath and dashed past their bodies into the center of the area. Yes, there you were. Still kneeling, unmoving.

“Snakes and boars, Y/N, please don’t be dead.”

He knelt next to you and grasped your chin, forcing you to look at him. Your eyes were wide, reacting slowly to his presence. He felt for a pulse, noticing how your arms had been invaded by the stone-like disease. But your eyes were alive. You were alive.

In front of you, he saw an array of sickly saplings which mimicked your atrophy. 

Without a moment’s delay, he pulled your arms over his shoulders and hoisted you onto his back, trudging out of the Withering Zone with hardly a breath to spare to whistle for the search party.

|

⸙

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“You’re going to do what?!” Sage Naphis’s jaw clenched as he berated you. “I can’t begin to understand why you think that you could detect reliable data, much less how you think you could survive that! Don’t be reckless. I will be getting in touch with the rest of the Amurta faculty so that they also withdraw support from this proposal. This is a terrible idea. Irresponsible. Have you learned nothing from the Akademiya about ethical methodology?”

You shrugged, slumping in your chair. The plants in his office were lively and undisciplined, vines roaming the walls and leaves coating the floor. You wondered about the species of the orchid on the windowsill.

“I can’t support this proposal. If you go through with this, you will be relieved from your status as a researcher.”

You sighed. “Not if death claims me first,” you muttered.

“Y/N. You can’t throw away what time you have left.” The sage leaned forward and peered at you over his large spectacles. “I understand where you’re coming from, but there’s no logical reason to throw your life away for something like this. Give it more time. I’m sure you can study this without needing to spend so much time in a Withering Zone.”

It was a Vanda falcata on the windowsill. It liked full sunlight, and you recalled that it enjoyed several types of mycorrhizal fungi associations throughout its development.

“With all due respect,” you said, eyes still on the V. falcata, “sitting back and waiting for other researchers to fix me is throwing my life away, sir. None of the other researchers endure the same urgency as me.”

“Then, you must at least modify your methods. I’m not trying to stop you from studying The Withering. I require you, by all observed guidelines, to be safe and rational.”

The Withering, festering deeply and wholly in your body, was never safe and rational. Why shouldn’t you step up to its game?

|

⸙

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The first thing you saw was the forest.

You woke in not a medicinal hut or bed, but under a travel tarp with only a slight cushion beneath your head. You squinted at the sun slipping through the branches. What had happened?

Oh, you remembered. Tighnari had come for you, ignoring your wishes. Despite the fact that you knew he had likely saved you from immediate death, you wanted to give him a piece of mind. Wherever he was. You tried to sit up.

“Y/N! Thank the gods, you’re awake!” 

Collei’s voice broke through your blind rage and you fell back. You were wrought with exhaustion. Your body was so weighed down you could hardly feel it. It was like all your appendages were still asleep.

“Collei,” you choked out. Your throat felt dry, lungs tight. 

“Don’t try to talk. I’m supposed to give you this when you wake up.” She helped you sit up with much effort and carefully handed you a cloudy tea-like liquid. “Master sent someone to tell us what happened and I came here to take care of you. You almost died! Master…” she lowered her volume, “seems so on edge today. I think he might be a little upset.” She resumed at a normal volume. “He’s busy dealing with something in the Withering Zone. When he comes back, don’t take anything he says too hard. He’s just worried about you, I think.”

Collei continued to chatter. You weren’t sure she knew exactly what was going on, but neither did you, you supposed. Either way, it was a bit much for you in your state, but you were grateful you weren’t left to your own thoughts.

At last you heard Tighnari approach. You weren’t exactly sure how you knew it was him, since you were still mostly immobile and couldn’t see more than the treetops above you. Something about his manner of walking, you guessed, was unmistakable.

Tighnari addressed Collei. “How are they?”

“They’re awake, Master!”

He knelt next to you and you stared up at him. You weren’t sure what expression to make, but you felt your mouth curl up in a sort of grimace. Tighnari’s brows scrunched, lips pressed together, and breaths hitched. 

“Good,” he said quietly.

He felt your forehead for a fever, tested your pulse, your blood pressure, your reflexes, your pupils, your sites of infection. “Spread is receding…” he muttered, but then hesitated. 

Tighnari took your now fully greyed hand. You couldn’t feel his touch at all. It was like he was holding another person’s hand that extended from your body. The fingers were tightly curled, grasping something. One by one, he gently pried the fingers open.

In the palm of the hand was a Dendro Vision.

Your Dendro Vision.

You’d heard stories of individuals receiving visions from time to time. You never expected—considered that it could happen to you. Collei was the first person with Eleazar you’d met with a vision, and you’d assumed she was the exception.

“Tighnari,” you rasped.

“Y/N,” he responded in awe.

Blessed in your curse. Protected by those you wanted to protect. Pursuit of life through the quickening of death. You stared at each other in silence for some time, soaking it in.

“I have to tell you something,” he said. “That may help you understand how this may have come about.”

You stared at him expectantly.

“The saplings… The rate at which the Withered mycelium formed a connection with them was rapid. By the time I was able to test their chemical content, they had nearly been sucked dry. The Withering affected them as if they had grown from the soil itself. This confirms the connection to Irminsul, the nature of The Withering, the reason we can’t eliminate the disease. It’s Irminsul itself that’s infected. It’s the roots of the Earth. There’s something deeper going on, and you just confirmed it.”

You let go a puff of air, a wave of relief washing over you.

“And could mean so much for future research. It’s revolutionary.”

“You continued my research?”

He shrugged. “I couldn’t just let your mad-scientist behaviour amount to nothing.” With narrowed eyes, he continued. “I can’t believe you would just run off like that. You knew I’d try to convince you out of it—of course I would have! How incredibly reckless of you to put yourself in that situation with your condition! I would have killed you if you’d died. You absolute nimrod!” 

You only smiled.

“Don’t give me that, moron. I’m so mad I could chew an Athel tree.”

The passion in the Forest Watcher’s voice and eyes only filled you with further relief. “Thank you. For saving me. And tell Collei thank you, too.”

“I will alert the rest of the Forest Rangers that looked for you that you are grateful to them and owe them a favour, too.”

“Did you really band together half the Forest Rangers?”

“Of course I did. Rule one, no going off on your own. Akademiya didn’t teach that in my day, either, but it’s a rule to live by.”

“But I’ve been going off on my own my whole life.”

“Yeah, and thanks to us, that won’t be your final sentiment. Learn to accept help, Y/N.” He looked at your legs and his tone cut from reproaching to tender. “I’m sorry, but you might need more of it from now on.”

Oh.

“Are my legs…”

“I’m so sorry. While you were in the Withering Zone, the Eleazar spread much more rapidly, and I don’t think this Nilotpala tea is going to substantially treat the infected areas. We can only do our best to sustain the rest of your body and pursue further research. You’ll need to commission a wheelchair from a carpenter in Sumeru City.”

“And my hands?” You tried to move them, to some avail, though you managed to drop your Vision onto your abdomen as you tried to curl your fingers around it again.

“Not entirely useless. You’ll be able to push and pull.” He looked regretful. “I’m not sure if you’ll regain full feeling. We can hope.”

You awkwardly rested your hand on your abdomen, trying to get a grip on the Vision. 

Tighnari saw this and quickly undid one of his belts. “We can use this as a sash for you. Let me help you sit up.”

As he did so, you understood the true extent of the Eleazar’s spread. Your lower back felt weak and uncomfortable, and below your waist, you had almost no feeling. You were sure you wouldn’t be able to walk, and even sitting up was a balancing act. Tighnari tied the Vision to the belt and 

“I’ll make sure to get it back to you.”

Tighnari’s eyes widened. “No, you won’t. This is yours now.”

You shook your head. “I can’t take anything else from you. You’ve done everything for me, and I haven’t returned the favour at all.”

“Nonsense. You’ve been helping us out around Gandharva Ville. You’re doing incredibly important research but you don’t act like those insufferable scholars who act like they’re the gods’ gift to the world. I care about you, and I want to help you any way I can.”

“But you don’t treat me like the others.”

He paused, brushing some hair out of your face. “Am I mistaken to imagine I can call you my friend?”

Your eyes fell. How had you gotten yourself in this mess so quickly? How had you let someone get close enough to care? He was close enough to you that when you died, he…

“Your hesitance isn’t enough to dissuade me. You should know this by now.”

“So I’m just stuck with you?”

“Me, and the rest of the Forest Rangers. You can’t just waste away in the city. You won’t.”

No, he was right. You wouldn’t waste away at the Akademiya any longer. But before you could spend the rest of your days in the rejuvenating aura of the rainforest, you had one more thing to do.

Table of Contents.

[kckt88]

The Lost Dragon 2 - War.

Summary: The Queen and her King go to war and a dragon is lost.

Warnings - Angst, Drama, Allusion to Smut, Fighting, Dragons, Fire, War, Injury, Blood Loss, Character Death.

AEMOND TARGARYEN x O.C -VAELYS TARGARYEN

Word Count: 4000

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon or Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used.

Comments, likes, and reblogs are very much appreciated.

Tag List - @jasminecosmic99 @kaelatargaryen @yesterdayfeelings-blog @immyowndefender @0eessirk8 @darylandbethfanforever9

The Targaryen army had been assembled, their banners fluttering proudly in the breeze as they prepared to march.

Meanwhile, the Velaryon fleet, led by Jace, were already enroute to Rain House, where they would rendezvous before launching their assault on the Triarchy.

In the war room of the Red Keep, final preparations were underway as commanders and strategists laid out their plans for the coming campaign. Maps were spread out on the table, battle plans meticulously drawn, and orders issued to the troops.

Vaelys and Aemond stood at the head of the table, their expressions grave yet determined. "This is it," Aemond declared, his voice carrying a note of resolve. "The time has come to put an end to the threat of the Triarchy once and for all."

Vaelys nodded in agreement, her eyes shining with determination. "Our forces are ready, our resolve unwavering," she affirmed. "Together, we will ensure the safety and security of our realm."

With a shared nod of understanding, they turned to leave the war room, ready to lead their troops into battle. As they stepped out into the courtyard of the Red Keep, they were met with the sight of their army.

Sovia and Daevyn stood beside Alysanne, their gazes lingering on the assembled forces.

“We leave you in charge-Should the worst happen then Alysanne will be at your side to guide you both“ said Vaelys firmly.

“I pray the worst does not happen and that you both return to us” said Sovia as she hugged her mother and father in turn.

“I will do everything in my power to see your mother safe byka grēges” whispered Aemond (Little bug).

“-And you Kepa” replied Sovia (Father).

“I will do my best-now son I expect you to assume my duties in my absence and we will send word as soon as the Triarchy have been dealt with” said Aemond firmly.

“Perzys se ānogar” urged Daevyn (Fire and blood).

“As always my son-” replied Aemond.

With one last farewell, Aemond and Vaelys checked their armour and made their way to their dragons.

With practiced ease, Aemond ascended the rope ladder and chained himself into Vhagar's saddle, his movements fluid and confident. Vaelys followed suit, gracefully climbing onto Vermithor's back, her heart pounding with anticipation.

With a silent command, Vhagar lifted into the air, her powerful wings beating against the wind as she soared into the sky. Vermithor followed close behind, his wings slicing through the air with effortless grace.

With Vhagar and Vermithor leading the way, they flew over the head of their army, their dragons' roars echoing through the air as they escorted their forces to Rain House.

After many hours of travel Vhagar and Vermithor finally descended upon Rain House, their powerful wings beating against the air, Aemond and Vaelys guided their dragons to a smooth landing in the open field.

The Targaryen army followed closely behind, their banners fluttering in the breeze as they formed ranks on the ground below.

With a graceful dismount, Aemond landed on the soft grass, his eye scanning the area for any signs of danger. Vaelys followed suit, her movements fluid and confident as she slid down from Vermithor's back.

The air was filled with a sense of anticipation as the Targaryen forces made camp for the night, setting up tents and lighting fires to ward off the chill of the evening air.

The sounds of horses trotting and soldiers talking filled the air, mingling with the crackle of flames and the occasional roar of the dragons.

Aemond and Vaelys moved through the camp together, their presence instilling a sense of confidence and determination in their troops. They checked in with their commanders, ensuring that all preparations were in place for the coming battle, and offering words of encouragement to all of their soldiers.

As night fell and the stars began to twinkle in the sky above, Aemond and Vaelys stood side by side, gazing out over the camp below.

That night, Aemond whisked his wife off to their tent and spent the night thrusting his hard cock into her.

His mouth sucking on her rosy nipples as she slowly rode him, her arms wrapped around his shoulders as they sat in the middle of the bed, the second time her took her, his harsh thrusts as he fucked her relentlessly from behind, his pace never wavering. His fingers digging into the flesh of her hips.

The third time, it was slow, passionate and loving. Even after he spilled his seed, he kept his cock inside his wife. Never wanting to leave her warmth.

The night was for them, as tomorrow the would face the Triarchy and they would see an end to the rebellion once and for all.

As the Targaryen and Velaryon forces engaged the Triarchy in battle, the clash of steel and the roar of dragons filled the air. The sky above the step stones became a battlefield as Vhagar, Vermithor, and Vermax descended upon the enemy fleet.

As much as they had surprised the Triarchy with their attack the Triarchy had still been prepared.

Their number far exceeding what they had originally been led to believe.

They had learned from their previous encounters with the dragons Caraxes and Seasmoke and had mounted scorpions to the bows of their ships, firing huge crossbow bolts at the dragons.

As the sharpened bolts flew through the air, Vhagar, being the largest target, became the primary focus of the Triarchy's assault.

Vaelys watched with growing concern as the bolts came dangerously close to injuring both Vhagar and Aemond.

Realizing the danger, Vaelys knew that she had to act swiftly to protect her husband and their dragons.

With a firm command, she ordered Aemond and Vhagar to stay back and cover their men over the land, while she and Vermithor would deal with the enemy fleet upon the seas alongside Jace and Vermax.

Aemond hesitated for a moment, torn between his duty to protect his men and his desire to fight alongside his wife.

But he knew that Vaelys was right. Vhagar was too large a target, and they couldn't risk losing her in the heat of battle.

With a heavy heart, Aemond nodded in agreement, his jaw set with determination. As Vhagar banked away from the fray, Aemond prepared to lead their ground forces into battle, his mind focused on the task at hand.

Meanwhile, Vaelys and Vermithor joined forces with Jace and Vermax, their dragons unleashing torrents of fire upon the enemy ships, their roars echoing through the air as they fought with all their might to turn the tide of battle in their favour.

But the number of Triarchy forces seemed unending, when one group fell more rose in their place.

As the battle raged on, Vermithor unleashed torrents of fire upon the sea born Triarchy ships, his roars echoing through the air as he wreaked havoc upon their fleet. The enemy vessels were engulfed in flames, their crews scrambling in a desperate attempt to escape the dragon's wrath.

Some of the Triarchy ships even made attempts to flee, but they were met with resistance from the Velaryon fleet, their ships forming a blockade to prevent any escape.

Meanwhile, Vermax soared overhead, his powerful wings beating against the wind as he searched for any remaining enemies.

But then, disaster struck.

A bolt from one of the Triarchy's scorpions found its mark, striking Vermax. The dragon roared in pain as he plummeted from the sky, crashing into the ground with a deafening thud.

Vaelys tried to fly after her brother and his dragon, but a bolt just narrowly missed her, and she had no choice but to manoeuvre Vermithor out of the way, she directed her bronze fury to fly higher in the sky, using the sun to her advantage.

She advanced upon the remainder of the Triarchy forces on the sea, Vermithor unleashing his flame upon them.

Dragon and rider working together, to rid themselves of the enemy and protect the Velaryon fleet.

With a swift command, Aemond guided Vhagar to land beside the fallen dragon, his mind racing with concern.

As they landed, Aemond hurried to Jace's side, his heart pounding in his chest as he checked for any signs of injury.

Jace was dazed but alive, his eyes wide with shock as he struggled to comprehend what had happened.

Meanwhile, Vermax lay on the ground, his massive form wracked with pain as he struggled to rise, his wing was broken from the collision, rendering him unable to fly.

“VERMAX” shouted Jace as he quickly freed himself from his chains and hauled himself to his feet.

“-His wing is broken” replied Aemond.

“D-Do you think he’ll be ok?” asked Jace worriedly.

“He’ll be fine-so long as we see an end to these cunts first” exclaimed Aemond as he unsheathed his sword, the darkened blade gleaming in the sunlight as he charged into the fray.

The Triarchy's ground forces surged forward to meet him, their weapons drawn, and their faces twisted in expressions of hatred and rage.

But Aemond was undaunted. With years of training as a swordsman and his experience with the Dothraki during his time in exile, he moved with speed and precision, his sword flashing through the air as he cut through his enemies with ease.

His movements were fluid and graceful, his strikes deadly and efficient as he engaged the enemy forces on the ground.

Beside him, Jace fought with equal ferocity, his own sword flashing in the sunlight as he stood shoulder to shoulder with his uncle. Together, they formed a formidable team, their swords singing as they clashed with the enemy, their movements complementing each other perfectly as they fought side by side.

Meanwhile, Vhagar hovered protectively over Vermax, her massive form casting a shadow over the injured dragon as she kept a watchful eye on their surroundings, ready to breathe fire on any who dared approach.

As the battle raged on, Aemond and Jace fought with unwavering determination, their swords flashing in the sunlight as they cut down their enemies with skill and precision.

As Aemond fought valiantly against the Triarchy forces, his sword slicing through the air with deadly intent, he suddenly felt a searing pain shoot through his leg.

With a gasp of agony, he stumbled backward, his balance faltering as he fell to his knees.

The world spun around him as he clutched at his wounded leg, blood seeping through the fabric of his breeches as he struggled to stay upright.

The clang of steel and the shouts of battle faded into the background as he fought to stay conscious, his vision swimming with waves of pain.

Beside him, Jace's voice rang out in alarm, his nephew's sword flashing as he fought to defend his uncle from the enemy forces.

But Aemond could hardly hear him over the pounding of his own heart, the pain in his leg threatening to overwhelm him.

With a grimace of determination, Aemond gritted his teeth and forced himself to push through the pain. Summoning every ounce of strength he possessed, he pushed himself to his feet, leaning heavily on his sword for support as he prepared to rejoin the fray.

But even as he struggled to rise, the pain in his leg refused to abate, shooting through him like a bolt of lightning with every movement.

As Aemond struggled to his feet, clutching his wounded leg, a group of Triarchy men advanced on him, their weapons drawn. With a grim determination, they loomed over him, their eyes glinting with a cruel intent.

Before Aemond could react, two of the Triarchy's men drew their bow's and fired arrows directly at him.

With a sickening thud, the arrows struck Aemond, one in the shoulder and one in his side. A cry of pain escaped his lips as he stumbled backward, the force of the impact driving him to his knees once more.

His weight braced on Blackfyre, Aemond fought to maintain his composure despite the searing pain coursing through his body. Blood oozed from the wounds, staining his armour crimson as he gritted his teeth against the agony.

With every ounce of strength he could muster, Aemond forced himself to remain upright, his grip on Blackfyre tightening as he prepared to defend himself against the advancing enemy.

Despite the odds stacked against him, his resolve remained unbroken, his eye blazing with defiance as he faced his enemies head-on.

But even as he prepared to meet his attackers, Aemond knew that he was wounded and vulnerable, his movements slowed by the stinging pain radiating from his leg and body.

As Aemond braced himself for the impending attack, one of the Triarchy men raised his bow and took aim directly at his heart.

With a swift motion, he released the arrow, the deadly projectile hurtling through the air.

But just as the arrow was about to strike Aemond, Jace shoved him to the ground.

The arrow struck Jace's chest with a sickening thud, and he crumpled to the ground.

Time seemed to stand still as Aemond stared in shock at his fallen nephew, his heart wrenching with grief and disbelief.

His mind raced with a whirlwind of emotions, from horror and despair to a burning fury that threatened to consume him.

With trembling hands, Aemond reached out to Jace, his fingers brushing against his nephew's prone body.

Tears stung his eye as he realized the extent of the sacrifice Jace had made to save him, and he felt a profound sense of guilt wash over him.

With a primal roar of rage and grief, Aemond launched himself at the Triarchy men, Blackfyre, flashing in the sunlight as he cut through them with swift and deadly strokes.

His movements were fuelled by a fierce determination to avenge his fallen nephew, each blow landing with the force of his sorrow and fury.

One by one, the Triarchy men fell before him, their cries of pain drowned out by the thundering beat of his heart. With every swing of his sword, Aemond unleashed his wrath upon them, his grief giving way to a burning desire for vengeance.

Finally, the last of the Triarchy men lay defeated at his feet, their lifeless bodies scattered across the battlefield.

With a heaving breath, Aemond cast his sword aside, his grief bearing down upon him like a crushing weight.

Rushing back to Jace's side, Aemond gathered his nephew into his arms, his heart breaking at the sight of the young man gasping for breath, his life slipping away before his eye.

"Why, Jace? Why did you sacrifice yourself?" Aemond demanded, his voice trembling with emotion as he searched his nephew's eyes for answers.

Jace's breath came in ragged gasps, his strength fading with each passing moment. With a faint smile, he reached out to take Aemond’s hand, his fingers cold against his uncle's skin.

"F-For h-her. I-I w-was w-wrong a-about y-you-" mumbled Jace, his voice barely a whisper as he struggled to speak. And with those words, his hand fell limp, his breath ceasing as he passed away in his uncle's arms.

Aemond was silent, his grief overwhelming as he held Jace's lifeless body close to his chest. Tears streamed down his face as he mourned the loss of his nephew.

As the last of the Triarchy forces fell before the might of the Targaryen and Velaryon armies, victory was finally theirs.

The battlefield lay strewn with the fallen, a grim testament to the cost of war. But amidst the carnage, the banners of House Targaryen and House Velaryon flew proudly, their victory hard-won but well-deserved.

Vaelys descended from the sky on Vermithor's back, her heart pounding with a mixture of relief and dread. As she landed not far from where Aemond knelt, cradling Jace's lifeless body in his arms, she caught sight of her brother and her heart stopped.

"JACAERYS" screamed Vaelys as she dismounted from Vermithor in a rush, her legs shaking beneath her as she stumbled toward Aemond and Jace, her mind reeling with shock.

"Aemond!" she cried; her voice raw with anguish as she fell to her knees beside them. "No, no, gods, no!"

Her hands reached out, trembling as they hovered over Jace's lifeless form, her heart breaking at the sight of her beloved brother lying so still and cold.

Tears streamed down her face as she looked up at Aemond, her eyes filled with a mixture of grief and accusation.

"Aemond, what happened?" she demanded, her voice choked with emotion. "What happened to him?"

Aemond's gaze met hers, his eyes filled with sorrow as he held Jace's body close to his chest. "He-he saved me," he whispered hoarsely, his voice thick with grief. "He sacrificed himself to save me."

Vaelys' heart clenched at the words, her grief threatening to consume her. She reached out to touch Jace's face, her fingers brushing against his cold skin as she whispered a prayer to the gods of old Valyria for his soul.

As Aemond knelt beside Jace's lifeless body, cradling his nephew in his arms, he felt a sudden wave of dizziness wash over him. His vision blurred, the edges of his sight fading into darkness as the blood loss from his wounds finally began to take its toll.

Through the haze, he could hear Vaelys' voice, her screams of anguish echoing in his ears like a distant echo. "Aemond! Aemond, stay with me!" she cried, her voice filled with desperation and fear.

But Aemond could no longer hold on.

His strength failed him, and he collapsed to the ground, his body trembling with exhaustion and pain.

The last thing he saw before darkness claimed him was Vaelys' face.

Vaelys paced back and forth in the dimly lit tent, her heart heavy with worry as she watched the Maesters tend to Aemond's wounds. Her braided hair was a tangled mess, strands of silver falling loose around her face, and her clothes were stained with soot and ash from the battlefield.

With every step she took, her mind raced with fear and uncertainty. Aemond lay unconscious on the cot before her, his face pale and drawn, his breathing shallow and laboured.

The Maesters worked with practiced hands, their faces grave as they tended to his injuries, but their expressions betrayed their concern.

Vaelys couldn't bear to look away from Aemond, her eyes fixed on his still form as she silently prayed for his recovery. Her heart ached with worry, her thoughts consumed by the possibility of losing him, and she felt a rising tide of panic threatening to overwhelm her.

But she pushed aside her fear, forcing herself to focus on the present moment. She paced back and forth, her footsteps echoing in the quiet confines of the tent, her mind racing with a thousand unanswered questions.

Hours passed in tense silence, the only sounds the muted voices of the Maesters and the soft rustle of fabric as Vaelys paced. And then, finally, a hushed murmur broke the stillness as one of the maesters spoke.

"He's stable, Your Grace," the Maester said, his voice tinged with relief. "But he's lost a lot of blood. It will take time for him to recover."

Vaelys' heart clenched with gratitude at the news, her eyes filling with tears of relief. She rushed to Aemond's side, her hands reaching out to grasp his limp fingers as she leaned in close, her breath catching in her throat as she whispered words of encouragement and love.

As she sat by his side, her hand clasped in his, she vowed to stay by his side until he woke, her love and devotion unwavering.

Vaelys remained steadfast at Aemond's side, her vigil unbroken as she refused to leave him for even a moment. She sat beside him, her eyes never straying from his pale, unconscious face, her hand clasped tightly in his.

Despite the urging of the Maesters and her advisors, Vaelys remained resolute in her determination to stay by Aemond's side. She refused to speak to anyone, her silence a testament to the depth of her love and devotion for her husband.

Minutes turned into hours, and still Vaelys remained at Aemond's side, hoping that her presence would be a comfort to him in his unconscious state. She repeatedly whispered words of encouragement and love, her voice soft and soothing as she spoke to him, willing him to wake.

Outside the tent, life went on, but inside, time seemed to stand still. Vaelys paid no heed to the passing hours, her only concern the man lying before her, fighting for his life.

As time stretched on, hope waned and despair threatened to consume her, but still Vaelys remained unwavering in her determination to stay by Aemond's side.

"Your Grace. A dragon has been sighted in the sky."

Without a word, she rose from her place beside Aemond's cot and made her way outside, her footsteps quickening with each passing moment.

As she emerged into the open air, the ground shook beneath her feet as the dragon Sapphyre landed in front of her.

"Daevyn," Vaelys exclaimed, her voice filled with both surprise and relief. "What are you doing here?"

Daevyn's face was drawn with worry as he dismounted from his dragon and approached his mother.

"I was worried," admitted Daevyn, his voice tinged with concern. "We didn't receive word from anyone, and I feared the worst. I had to come and check for myself."

Wrapping her arms around him, Vaelys held him close, her heart overflowing with love and gratitude. "Thank you, Daevyn," she whispered, her voice choked with emotion. "Thank you for coming."

Daevyn gazed at his mother’s dishevelled appearance, noting the tangled strands of silver hair and the soot stains on her clothes. His heart clenched with worry at the sight, his mind racing with concern for her well-being.

But then, through the flap of the tent, he caught sight of the linen-wrapped body lying on the cot, and a wave of dread washed over him.

His breath caught in his throat as he automatically assumed the worst, fearing that his father had met his end on the battlefield.

"M-mother," he stammered, his voice trembling with fear. "Is-is that-"

But before he could finish his question, Vaelys reached out to him, her hand resting gently on his arm as she met his gaze with a reassuring smile.

"No, sweet boy," she said softly, her voice steady despite the turmoil in her heart. "It's not your father-"

Relief flooded through Daevyn at her words, his shoulders sagging with the weight of his sudden release from fear.

He let out a shaky breath, his eyes brimming with gratitude as he wrapped his arms around his mother, holding her close in a tight embrace.

"Thank the gods," murmured Daevyn, his voice muffled against her shoulder.

As Daevyn held his mother close, his heart still racing with the fear of loss, Vaelys gently pulled away from him, her eyes filled with sorrow as she met his gaze.

"Daevyn-" she said softly, her voice tinged with sadness. "-It's Jace."

A look of confusion crossed Daevyn's face, his brow furrowing in disbelief. "J-Jace?" he repeated, his voice barely a whisper. "But-how?"

Vaelys took a deep breath, steeling herself against the pain of the words she was about to speak. "He gave his life to save your father," she explained, her voice trembling with emotion. "He pushed Aemond out of the way of an arrow meant for him, and-he didn't survive."

A heavy silence hung between them as Daevyn processed her words, his heart heavy with grief at the loss of his beloved uncle.

Tears welled up in his eyes, his throat tight with sorrow as he struggled to comprehend the magnitude of their loss.

"He-he sacrificed himself for father?" Daevyn whispered, his voice choked with emotion.

Vaelys nodded, her own eyes brimming with tears as she reached out to him, offering him comfort in their shared grief. "Yes," she said softly. "He saved your father's life, Daevyn. He was a hero."

[dailyadventureprompts]

Villain: End Without Rest, Outer God of Ceaseless Apocalypse

How many times can a thing break before it can break no more?

The mummified corpse of a titanic dragon defies all laws of scale and destiny to sink its teeth into a bleeding sun, a fleet of ships like clockwork locusts stripmine a world for spare parts, angels gone feral parade down the road while scourging their flesh singing songs of the coming endtimes in a thousand witless tongues. All these things and more are the being known as “End without Rest”, an engine of destruction that wanders the multiverse without aim, a nomadic Armageddon looking to impose itself on the mythologies of other worlds.

End without Rest is a god for those who are convinced that final days are upon them, whether that be doom preaching madmen, the scions of crumbling empire, or religious fanatics convinced they alone will be saved. It is the impulse to ignore your own safety and the safety of others, and to instead heap all the good things of life upon a pyre and watch them burn. End without Rest senses these pyres like signal beacons, and descends on the arsonist’s innocent world to make good on all their fears.

Adventure Hooks: 

Exploring the ruins of a now forgotten city leads the party into conflict with a series of strange, rust-covered automotons that seem to have been haunting the site since its fall. Pushing deeper, they find the machines defending the wreck of a long grounded astral ship, with the surrounding evidence pointing to the city’s inhabitants having died defending against an army of these constructs a thousand years ago.

A few generations ago, a charismatic priest found a book of prophecies, and took his followers out to the badlands where they could be safe from the cleansing fire that was about to destroy their homeland. The apocalypse is now overdue, and the priest’s followers have gone a bit squirly in the meantime, living off the land in pious austerity and attacking travellers and native inhabitants of the badlands for supplies. The most recent head of their congregation has decided to take a more active approach to prophecy, and has begun a series of grisly raids with the intent of triggering the endtimes by orchestrating his own omens.

The stars bleed, the horizon seems to burn, and the party have to run for cover as a falling star makes its way directly towards their camp. Returning to the smoking crater they find a Planetar angel gasping for life, heavenly light bleeding from innumerable battle wounds. With their last breath, they recount their battle with a fallen angel intent on beginning the end of the world by blowing a sacred horn. This plannetar gave its life to avert this crisis, and with their last ounce of strength to knock the horn from their foe’s hands and sent it crashing to earth. Now the party must race to find where the second “falling star” landed before their fallen adversary completes their final mission.

Background: The origins of End without Rest stand as a testament for what happens when gods and mortals meddle with the ineffable nature of fate. It begins with a petty war god watching as a world reached the predestined end of its mythology, it sun devoured by a great beast to usher in the final age of darkness and dissolution that would spell that realm’s end. This wargod was not the type to see a whole world full of people and weep at the futility of all, or rush in to try and set fate onto a different course.... she was the type to see something that could destroy pantheons and start thinking about how it could be weaponized.

End without Rest is the result of all her efforts: The body of an apocalyptic dragon, mummified from its long time in the void, pulled from the dead realms and reawakened with a supernova burning in its belly. Around this monstrosity she set a legion of constructs to maintain, defend, and reign the beast, answerable only to her. She wielded her new weapon with glee and with pride, carving out an empire of worlds that bowed to hear in fear of the apocaylpse she could bring down on them... until she fucked up and brought it down on herself instead.

With its master consumed and her divine fire burning in its furnace of a heart, there was nothing to stop End without Rest from growing, of reaching the critical mass of its own godhood, of moving from world to world ending them based on instinct alone.  This process has repeated so long that the remnants of other apocalypses have got swept up in the apocalypse engine’s wake: routed legions of the endtimes pledging themselves to its service, orphaned harbingers following it in hopes of finding meaning after their task is complete.

Titles: The Apocalypse Engine, Suneater, the unready end

Signs: Confused visions of the enditmes, animals going feral, objects rusting breaking or unraveling before they should.

Symbols: The Jaws of a beast (often black, often skeletal) closing around a red sun. Iron locusts

[bogginswritings]

Lil Astarion x Barbarian!Tav

This isn't the best I've written, but I didn't feel like fixing it. Have some fluff. Astarion might be a bit OOC, still getting the hang f that mf. I made a Tav barbarian named HERman as a joke. Now I love her more than anything. So yes that is where I got the inspiration from.

Pairing: Astarion x fem!barbarian!tav

Word count: 1100+

Contents: FLUFF. JUST. THAT. ALso some mentions of nude cuddling, but in only innocent context.

She was rough.

During battle at the goblin camp she threw the goblins on each other, into fire pits, or simply against walls.

When they fought larger, heavier, enemies, she swinged around with her great axe as if it was nothing. There was no grace to her movements, none at all, but still they were calculated (or he thiught they were. Whatever they were, they worked). She’d be covered in blood, grinning at her victory (Astarion would never admit how attractive she looked during those moments).

She raged, entering some frenzy during battle. Her mind having a pretty simple goal; kill and win. She’ll cry out during it, her voice hoarse. And she’d urge on the others of the party, praising them afterwards for a battle well-fought (Astarion was sure that if blushing was possible for him, he’d be a tomato).

Not only while fighting was she rough. Talking to others she was, too. Often on accident, choosing the wrong words; sometimes on purpose.

And man, her hands. They were calloused, the wooden handle of her axe leaving it dry. They were also big, and strong, but honestly that was another topic to Astarion.

Her touch, however, was the softest. So, so gentle. Right now as she had him cooped up in her arms, her fingers trailing over his bare back. The occasional kiss she planted on his head so sweet it made him mentally swoon. SWOON! He couldn’t remember the last time he did that, or if he ever had.

He was in a little cocoon, one she created for him. Her big arms wrapped around his frame, keeping him close. He doubted he could fight his way out, with the way her strong grip engulfed him. Not that he wanted, he was fine just being there. His chest pressed against her bare one, soaking in all of her natural body heat. His head tucked under her chin, in her shoulder, basically hidden from the world.

Her being in his tent was routine at this point. He can’t remember the last time she set up her own. Instead she’d come to help set up his. Not without complaining about his amount of pillows, though. Which he thought of as quite hypocritical, since she was happy to plop onto them after a long travel.

Astarion wasn’t sure when this started as him trying to seduce her for his safety, and ended with him head over heels. Not that he was complaining, she seemed to return his feelings. When he told her about his simple plan, and how it backfired (‘I was supposed to seduce you, now I’m in love with you,’ kinda thing) she was hurt. Telling him she thought it was real, while he was desperate to explain he did want it to be real.

A long talk followed, with her reassuring him he didn’t need to ‘seduce’ her for her to keep him safe. Or, in her flattering words, ‘I haven’t sucked off Gale’s dick, but I still saved him from those goblins’. She then clarified she would very much like to be ‘something real’ with him, but that if this still was a trick (somehow), she’d respect his choice. She’d have his back, regardless of what he wanted with her.

Astarion hasn’t gotten that option often before.

It’s probably why he felt so comfortable in her arms right now, so safe. He had the knowledge she wouldn’t do anything to him, try anything with him. She was fine doing whatever he wanted, made sure he was comfortable.

“Astarion?”

Her voice pulled him out of his thoughts. Her voice that was so deep, yet so silky and warm. “Hm?”

“Lost you there for a moment,” she muttered. His lips pressed an apologizing kiss to her shoulder, “I’m sorry. Were you saying something, my darling?”

“Nothing important,” she whispered, “are you okay?”

She asked that question many times, and every time it made his heart flutter. He expected to be tired of that question by now, but she was sincere when she asked it. genuinely wanted to know. He nodded, “More than, dare I say.”

She chuckled softly, pressing a kiss to his head, “That’s good.”

“Hmhm,” he hummed, “What is it you were saying?”

“I need to pee.”

“No,” his arms tightened around her waist (as if that did anything against her, but it’s the idea that counts). She snorted, “What do you mean no?”

“I’m comfortable, so you’re not leaving.”

“I’ll come back after.”

“Afraid the answer is still no, dear.”

“However cute I think this is, I really have to go. I’ll pee myself.”

“Then by all means go ahead.” He could feel her chest moving against his own, soon giggles were leaving her mouth, “You’re so gross, and that’s me saying this.”

Astarion laughed, “I’ll have to get warm all over again.”

“Too bad, so sad,” She pried his arm away from her waist, with little effort (Astarion didn’t feel the need to express how her casual strength made him feel) might he add. Astarion let out a sound of protest that sounded a suspicious amount like a whine, but didn’t make a move to stop her. Once untangled, she pressed a kiss on his nose, leaving the tent to do her thing.

He simply flopped back in position, star-fish pose on the bedrolls. It didn’t take long for the tent flap to be opened again, a cold gush of air from the outside hitting him. She sat down next to him again, nudging him to make space. With a dramatic sigh he moved away, and she slipped in next to him again. “Was that so bad?”

“Horrible, I’m freezing to death over here.”

She laughed, “You’re such a fucking drama queen,” she commented, squeezing his waist. He yelped in response, moving away from her. She raised an intrigued brow, “Ticklish?”

He met her eyes, the grin on her face anything but comforting, “No.”

“Sure?” she squeezed at his side again, his body jerking away making her laugh, “I’m going to have so much fun with this new piece of information.”

“You’d torture me,” he commented, “You wouldn’t dare.”

She smiled, pulling him closer into her arms again, “Oh no, of course i wouldn't,” she feigned, and Astarion pouted into her shoulder, “I’m serious!”

“Luckily you are oh so threatening.”

“I do believe this is a category of bullying.”

“Yes,” she confirmed, “But lovingly.”

“Uh-huh,” he remarked, eyes closing as her hands went back to rubbing his back and playing with the hairs at the nape of his neck.

When he felt her lips in his hair, an ‘i love you’ muttered against it, her arms tightening around him while he slipped into slumber, he decided he wouldn’t mind staying there for the rest of their lives.

[smolgloves]

The Blood and The Heart

A/n: We were all thinking of it, so lets get some baulder's gate 3 G/t 💅

Tw: descriptions of blood, fearplay, mentions of death/murder attempted crushing, and dehumanizing language.

Food had grown scarce during this time, between the goblins that hunted travelers on the road and the town being inflicted with an unnatural plague; borrowers who lived on the outskirts of town could barely find enough resources to last a week. But Freya dared to be braver than most of her kind, she ventured further out past the border and collected berries. It was dangerous but it was enough for the borrower to survive better than others back home, and if she was lucky she could find the occasional traveler who would make camp nearby, that's when Freya would hit the jackpot! And today was her lucky day as a large group had set up camp tonight. It was a more diverse group, with humans, elves, a halfling, a tiefling, and even a githyanki traveling together. They all gathered together by the fire and shared stories together, some were enjoying the company more than others but all still enjoying the night together. 

~~~ 

It was the dead of night when Freya had decided to strike. She had crept around the campsite while everyone was sleeping in their tents picking up scraps that had been discarded, however, she noticed one tent remained empty; an elf had wandered out and ventured into the woods halfway through the night, he had not returned yet, Freya wondered if something happened to him but no one else seemed to be concerned. So she took the opportunity to sneak into his tent. She was greeted with a cozy area filled with satin pillows and stacks of books but a metallic stench lingered inside. As the golden haired borrower ventured further she saw a couple bottles of red wine…. But no food in sight. Strange, most travelers carried a personal stash of rations on them, where was this guy's stash? 

The sound of footsteps rumbled just outside the tent, Freya gasped and quickly dove behind a dark red pillow that laid on the ground. 

The elf had strolled back into his tent with the stench of death lingering behind him. Freya had to swallow a gag in order to keep quiet, she had to get out of here now! Peeking out from her hiding spot, she noticed him sitting on the bedroll with his back to her rummaging through a sack that reeked; that must have explained the rotting stench. Perfect time to escape! 

Freya held her breath as she tiptoed out in the open, she glanced over at the elf and saw him still preoccupied with his bag, she took another few steps and another just to test his perception before she broke out in a sprint, she was about halfway across the tent before a blood stained dagger cut down directly in her path. 

"Well well, looks like I have a pest in my tent." The Elf spoke with a cold tone. 

Dread formed inside the borrower as she dared to look up, her gray eyes widened as she stared at a pale elf with curly silver hair that tucked behind his pointed ears, intense red eyes locked onto her with a menacing glare, blood was splattered across his face, with a little bit dribbling out of the corner of his mouth, but the most terrifying thing was when he parted his lips to show pointed fangs that were sharp enough to impale Freya. 

"Vampire…" Ice coursed through her veins. 

"So the pest can speak." A cruel smile twisted upon his lips as his spender hand loomed over Freya. "I'm sure your explanation will be good." 

Adrenaline forced the tiny woman to break out in a sprint, she ducked from the ghastly fingers, twisting and turning from the maze of books that almost seem to be conspiring against her!

"I love a good hunt." He said with a purr, causing a sick knot to twist in Freya's gut. Her life was a game to this monster, if Freya didn't get out of this tent, she was as good as dead! Like a stalking cat, the vampire moved with agility, each time Freya thought she was free, he blocked her way to safety, her energy slowly drained until he had her right where he wanted her, cornered like a helpless mouse. 

"Aww, no more fight?" He clicked his tongue. "And here I thought this would be more fun."

Before Freya could even react, a swift hand came and snatched her up. She let out a shriek, long fingers curled around her body, pinning her arms to her sides. "Unhand me!" The borrower shouted as she squirmed in his grip.

"Not until you explain why you're in my tent." He spoke in a cold voice, red eyes glaring down at her. 

"I was just looking for something to eat!" Freya exclaimed. "I wasn't going to take much, I swear!" 

The pale man narrowed his eyes. "Stealing food from a vampire's tent? That doesn't seem smart for a multitude of reasons." 

"Had I known you were a vampire I wouldn't have come in, trust me." She snapped back. "Now let me go!"

"You know, we've been dealing with a lot of attacks lately," He spoke in a low tone. "And I can't shake the feeling that they always seem to figure out exactly where we are…" 

"You can't seriously think I have something to do with it?" Freya's eyes shot daggers at the vampire. 

The man scoffed. "Bounty hunters  have been after me and suddenly a borrower shows up in my tent?!" His grip shifted to where Freya laid in an open palm but his thumb pinned her down, pressing firmly on her sternum. "Little convenient, don't you think?" 

Freya gasped as he pressed down on her chest, forcing the air to slowly leave her lungs. "I have… nothing to do… with that!" 

"It wouldn't be hard, you know." A coy smile appeared on his face, his thumb pressing harder into the borrower. "To make you choke on your own blood, just a little more pressure and you'll be nothing more than a bloody mess in my hand." He pulled her in closer, a hungry look flickering in his eyes. "I suggest you start talking." 

"Please!" Tears pricked the corners of her eyes as she tried using her strength to push his thumb off, but it only made him exert more. "I'm not a part of... whatever you're… dealing with!" 

"You're really going to keep this up?" He let out a sigh, as if this was some game he was growing bored with. 

Breaths became more shallow for the borrower, she looked up at him with pleading eyes as if that was her only hope to get through to him.

"Astarion?" 

Both Freya and the vampire snapped their heads over to the source of the voice. There was a halfling standing at the opening of the tent. Choppy black hair that reached their shoulders and tanned skin, they were dressed in a casual white shirt, similar to the one the vampire- or Astarion was wearing.

"Tav?" Astarion said in a much softer tone. "What are you doing here?" 

"I wanted to make sure you came back to camp safely, is that a borrower?" They asked as they walked closer to the vampire like it was no big deal. Their eyes were a bright shade of green as they looked at the captive Freya in awe. 

"More like a spy." Astarion grumbled. "Found her sneaking around my tent." 

"I'm not a fucking spy!" Freya shouted through her shallow breaths. 

"Shut up!" Astarion hissed. "You're not leaving until you tell me who sent you!"

"Astarion, I don't think she's with the bounty hunters." Tav spoke in a soft voice.

"That's what she wants you to think." Astarion said, anger lacing his voice. "I know she's with them." 

Tav stared at Astarion for a moment, as if they were reading them like a book. "You're scared of who's sending the bounty hunters…" 

"Get out of my head, Tav!" He snapped back. "You know he's the one behind this." 

"Maybe so, but…" The halfling put a hand on his wrist, giving a soft squeeze. "She's not the reason we keep finding trouble." 

Freya watched as Astarion's face twisted, as if he was debating what to do with the borrower in hand. "How can you be so sure she's not with them?" 

Tav gave a smug look and looked down at Freya. "Earlier this evening, you were hiding in the trees, watching us as we ate, right?"

Freya's eyes widened as Tav spoke, how did they know? She debated whether or not admitting that would be better for her survival.

"I spotted you earlier and thought about offering you a plate." Tav let out a chuckle before turning to the vampire. "You weren't around when I spotted her, don't you think she would have followed you into the forest when you were alone instead of waiting for all of us to go to bed?" 

It felt like an eternity, as Astarion stared at Freya, his crimson eyes froze her in place, until she was suddenly shoved into the hands of the Halfling. "Take the wretched girl." 

Pressure was finally released from Freya's sternum and she took deep breaths to make up the amount of air that was stolen from her. "You're bloody insane!" Freya choked out between breaths. 

"Bold words from someone who was trembling in my hand a second ago." He gave her a smug smile.

"Play nice." Tav warned, unlike Astarion; the halfling kept Freya cupped in their open hands, their fingers slightly curled around the borrower as if to provide a shield from the vampire. That small gesture didn't go unnoticed.

“Please, just let me go and I promise you'll never see me again.” Freya stared up at Tav, hoping her pleas could sway the more reasonable one. 

“The little one steals our food and begs to be released?” A chuckle slipped from Astarion as he stared daggers at Freya. “Not without a price, darling.” 

A panic threatened to take hold of Freya once more, her throat closed off before words could form. Then a sigh from behind broke her from her thoughts, she turned back to Tav who couldn't contain the annoyance on their face.

“Let's talk privately.” Tav said with a sweet smile. They began walking towards the exit but paused for a moment to turn their head to Astarion. “I will speak with you later.” 

The cool breeze hit Freya's skin as she was carried off to the dying embers of the campfire.

“Sorry about that,” They set Freya down on a stone. “Astarion can be a little… much sometimes.” 

“A little?!” Freya hissed out. “He nearly killed me!” 

Tav let out a chuckle. “Don't take it personally, he put a knife to my throat when we first met.” 

“And you kept him around?!” 

“Believe it or not, he's actually a good companion.” Tav gave a soft smile and glanced over at the vampire's tent. “But… he's been through a lot.”

Freya noticed Tav's gave lingered at the tent, sympathy glazed over their green eyes. It was hard to believe that such a monster would warrant sympathy from a much kinder person, if Freya didn't still feel the aches from her chest, she might have been inclined to forgive him. But vampires are always out for blood, she just hopes that Tav doesn't forget that.

Tav snapped their attention back to Freya. “Sorry, I was lost in thought, but how about I give you something to eat.” 

“I uh… already got food.” Freya spoke softly, clutching the strap of her bag. 

“Yeah, but I imagine you just grabbed some scraps off the ground.” They moved over to a supply pack on the ground. “I can get you something more fresh and filling.” 

Pride took hold of the borrower, bad enough that she had to be caught and rescued, she didn't need help being fed. “I don't need your charity.” 

Tav just flashed a grin. “Don't think of it as a charity, think of it as… compensation for dealing with Astarion.” 

Freya couldn't help but let a soft chuckle slip out, making Tav's smile broaden. 

“I knew that would ease you up.” they rummaged around their bag and pulled out some dried meat to offer it to her. 

Freya gingerly took the food with both hands and took a small nibble of it. Her eyes widened as the spices that peppered the meat danced on her tongue, it had been a while since she had something this good.

“There's more of that if you'd like.” Tav said. “Would you mind telling me your name?” 

“My name is Freya.” 

“Pleasure to meet you, Freya. I'm Tav and that was Astarion back there.” Tav sat back, still keeping their gaze on Freya. “I have to ask, what is a borrower doing all the way out here? Your kind usually stays closer to civilization.” 

“Well… the town I live near is dealing with a plague and goblins.” Freya explained. “Not many merchants are wanting to go down to Skaars Hollow, so I venture out a little further.” 

“What a coincidence, we were just heading down that way!” Tav exclaimed. “We're going to be taking care of that little goblin problem, but I must say, I wasn't aware there was a plague there.” 

“I'm not surprised, it just came out of nowhere one day.” The air seemed to grow colder as Freya talked about the plague. “There's rumors that this plague is actually a curse.” 

Tav's eyes widened. “You wouldn't happen to know more about that, would you?” 

“I'm not sure how true it all is.” Freya pondered. “I overheard it while I was borrowing at our Tavern one night. This could all be drunken banter.” 

“Maybe so, but it's definitely something I'd like to look into.” Tav lost themselves in a deep thought, letting the silence hang in the air. Then they glanced back at Freya, green eyes looking her up and down. “Are you going to head back to the village soon?” 

“That was the plan.” 

Tav shot a wearily look towards the borrower. “It's awfully late to be walking back there, might I recommend you stay the night at camp and we can all head to Skaars Hollow together.” 

Freya mirrored Tav's uncertainty. “I don't think that's a good idea.” 

“I understand you borrowers don't normally seek aid from larger folks but heading back to your village at your height must be dangerous, I don't think I could live with myself if you got hurt.” Tav said softly. They weren't wrong, the road to Skaars Hollow is a rather long walk through the forest where owls stalk the night, if Freya left now she probably wouldn't get back to her colony until morning, yet pride still took hold of her. “I can handle myself!” 

“I'm sure you can but I would just feel better if I escorted you back there.” They replied. “And after tonight, I think you deserve it.”

The borrower folded her arms. “Your companion wouldn't agree, and I don't think I want to meet the rest of your group if they're anything like your vampire friend.”

“I can promise you that most of the group is nothing like Astarion.” Tav laughed. “But if it makes you feel better, I won't force you to meet the rest of the group unless you wish too.” 

“You'd do that for me?” Freya whispered, she stared at Tav as if she was expecting them to burst out laughing and reveal it to be a trick, but Tav just flashed a warm smile that made her heart flutter. 

“Of course, I understand that being around larger folks is not something you're used to, I won't reveal you to anyone you don't feel comfortable with.” The halfling said softly. “Besides, we shortys must stick together, right?” 

Freya let out a hearty chuckle, something about Tav made it so easy for her to drop her guard. “Would you mind sparing some materials for me then? Nothing much, just maybe some rags, sewing needles, scraps of food?” 

“It would be my pleasure, Freya.” They smiled.

“Alright, deal.” Freya felt her cheeks grow pink as she stared into Tav's eyes, but she quickly shied away before it became noticeable.“I will accompany you to the tavern but that's where we need to split.” 

Tav rested a hand over their heart. “Then I shall cherish the moments we will spend together.” 

[bokettochild]

For the febuwhump prompts, how about Mask and Captain Link with either hostage situation or "you weren't supposed to be there"?

Since the whole "hostage situation" got requested by someone else as well, I ended up going for the other option!

And hey, we're a month late, but I'm working two jobs so I think it should be fine LOL

Anyways, here, have some Captain Link freaking out about Mask's safety!

Rating: Teen

Word count: 1,610 (Mask cuts my word counts in half LOL)

Summary: Caught in a battle with the tides against them, Captain Link elects to use some slightly less than honorable methods to down their monster enemies. Mask isn't told about the plan though, but maybe he should have been...

-

  War isn’t pretty.  Sacrifices are something that often must be made, most commonly in the forms of life, of soldiers, but sometimes at a cost to the land, to cities, to integrity and honor. Winning isn’t easy, and it’s rare an enemy will play by the rules, so there’s rarely any point in doing so yourself either. That doesn’t make Link feel any better about his decision, but it’s the truth. He can’t play fair against demons if he wants to win. 

  “The bombs are placed sir.” A soldier announces, throwing a quick salute, one that he nods to acknowledge. 

  Behind him, the battle still rages, but Impa had demanded he fall back long enough to at least have his own wounds bound before charging back into the fray. In that time, he’s laid some quick plans, and while the idea of causing the very ground to collapse beneath the feet of the enemy camp isn’t something he’s proud of, he has high expectations that it will turn the tides in their favor. 

  That’s what matters, in the long run. Stopping the enemy, no matter how, and getting his own people out of here alive. Even so, he doesn’t like it. He’d hate to have such a tactic used on his people, and he knows the hylian army would call it dirty and lowdown of the enemy to do the same. Still, the odds are far from in their favor, and he’s got to level the playing field somehow. Leveling the actual field of battle by collapsing the ground beneath their camp, behind their defenses, is the best chance he’s got. 

  “Set to blast?” 

  “Five minutes, sir.” 

  He wishes he had a clock on him, or some sort of watch or other time keeping device, but he doesn’t, and he can’t. He’s got enough gear to mind, and the ever-present tick of a clock would only serve to drive him mad in the long run. 

  He waves off the thought and turns his attention back to the battle, although one part of his mind stays focused on the field medic binding his wounds. Potions are running low, and until they can stop long enough to acquire ore from Ravio, they need to save what they have for the more serious injuries, or those near death. Using a potion on himself when he’s only been stabbed a couple times is pointless. Still, he doesn’t trust medics as a rule, so letting them work without waiting for the inevitable “mistake” won’t stand. 

  He only breathes freely when the medic leaves, and he’s free to reach for the Master Sword again and return to battle. Even then though, his breathing isn’t as steady as he’s like, what with the bruised ribs and all. 

  “Countdown?” He asks his lieutenant. 

  “Two minutes.” 

  They have only a little longer to wait until the ground collapses, and his own people are too far ack to be affected, still tackling the front lines of the enemy, not the archers and far larger beasts that throw heavy clods of earth and explosives down amid them. 

  Two minutes. Then the assault will stop, and his people can sweep in and finish this mission. Two minutes and the monsters they’re fighting won’t have backup or cover fire to aid them, and the hylian forces can overtake at long last.  

  He scans the field briefly. He’s not heading back in, not yet. The men don’t know the cliffs will be going down, and they’ll need direction when they do. They’ll need instruction, and he’ll be the one to provide it when that happens, coming back down amid them to offer guidance and direction. First though, he needs to ensure that all goes as intended, and be prepared on the chance that it doesn’t for one reason or another. 

  “One minute sir.” His lieutenant pants. They’re both tired, they've been fighting for hours without rest and all of them are flagging.  

  “Hold in there, lieutenant,” he tries to assure. “We’ll have them.” A charming smile, one Impa had made sure was trained into him, weas ready to unleash, was something to settle and strengthen and give hope, a confident look and glitter of the eyes, seems to settle the man at his side. 

  “Aye, captain.” A weak attempt at a smile answers his own bright one. “We- sir!” Dark eyes widen in horror as they fix behind him on the enemy, and Link turns through force of habit to catch sight of the foe, the change of the tides, the danger that no doubt lies behind him. “Mask!” 

  It takes a second, but then he sees it. A little flicker of yellow against the sea of silver and red. A little kitsune mask bobbing at the hip of a child who’s charging, alone, blade charged with magic and felling monsters with ease born of experience, uphill. Uphill into the blast zone. Uphill towards the camp and leading some of their soldiers, although the men are harder pressed to follow his lead in slipping through the enemy lines, no matter how hard they try. Uphill into where only seconds remain before bombs take out the land and level the camp, leaving nothing but rubble behind. 

  His feet are moving before his mind has time to catch up to him, a shout on his lips and panic making his heart race. 

  “Sir!” His lieutenant’s voice raises, but the rest in lost in the sounds of a blast that has a rumble filling the air around them, screams of the enemy rising beside the sounds of tumbling earth, crumbling and cracking rock, and flames that last only as long as the explosion before being smothered with the falling rubble. 

  A gust of smoke and cloud of dirt arises, blowing back against them, blinding all, even the enemy, temporarily and giving his men time to strike out blindly at where their foes last were even while the beasts startle and pause with sight lost. “Press forwards! Hold the line!” He manages to shout, gathering his own wits enough to supply commands to his men, commands that echo back as officers repeat the orders to their men, a chorus that echos even as he moves with them. 

  There’s no trace of yellow up ahead, not in the rubble of what’s left, but he moves along anyways. He strikes the fallen foes that still sow signs of life, be it in flailing limbs or shrieking from piglike snouts. Blood paints the path he takes, but his gaze searches for bright and sunny yellow, something innocent and warm against the battlefield around them.  

  Cries, shouts, screams and the clashing of blades fills his ears, drowns out any shout he calls out into the rubble, but the tide of the battle is changing he can hear his men’s voices rising, hear the hope as they push their way past, felling their foe now that bombs and arrows don’t rain down from overhead upon them to make them fall back again and again. His mind isn’t on their victory though. There's a part of him, a part that knows he must remain focused, set, poised, ready, aware; something that tracks where they stand and how they fare, but another part searches. 

  The monsters fall in waves. The beasts within the rubble give their final cries as his blade ends their miserable lives. His men begin to shout their victory as the sounds of blades clashing dims, fades entirely, but their captain does not celebrate beside them. 

  He is searching. With the enemy felled he can drop his sword, drop to his knees to push aside rubble, dirt, stone, anything that’s left of the tumbled apart camp. 

  Proxi whizzes about; searching, calling. His voice rises beside hers. “Mask! Kid, come on!” 

  There’s no returning call. 

 “Please!” 

  Behind him, there’s murmuring. Shouts fade, feet fall. There’s a rush of booted steps and then hands are helping to lift away the rubble. Voices of every sort rise to call out, their cries all the same. “Mask! Where are you, kid?” Searching for a flicker of yellow, a head of yellow hair or a familiar smiling mask. Searching for a smirking face, a little troublemaker. 

  The fairies dart, the men sift, the cries of all sound over the field in the absence of a monster’s squeals. The joy of victory fades as they look for a single soul caught in the winning blow. Caught where he was never meant to be, at the worst of times for him to have slipped loose from amidst them. 

  It feels like forever, the moving of ruble, the sifting, the calling. Each second is torture, heart pounding fit to burst in his throat as he tears through the remains of the enemy camp. Not here, not there. Not amid the monsters but not far away. He’s frantic, pushing aside burdens that, in his right mind, he’d ever dare attempt to move alone. The singing of pain through his frame, through every muscle and bone, is ignored as he tears through, searching, searching, searching- 

  “Captain Link!” 

  Yellow, paint chipped and steaked with dirt and blood. Yellow matted and filthy strands, the face beneath just as stained. He doesn’t care though. He’s gathering up the tiny form in his arms and holding, clinging, fingers searching for a pulse even as his own reaches speeds he didn’t know possible. 

  The faint little beat beneath his fingertips is enough to have a sob escaping past the heart in his throat. 

  His kid is alive. He’s alive, he’s going to be okay. Link clings tightly, holding the boy close. He’s alive. Thank Hylia, he’s alive. 

[belaephemeral]

Alcohol-Free

Pairing: Diluc x Reader, Venti x Reader (gender-neutral)

Word count: 2927

Summary: The Darknight Hero tends to your wounds after a sudden encounter in the forests of Mondstadt. However, this task seems to be a challenge, especially when one meddlesome bard keeps intervening and proving to be a constant nuisance, both sober and drunk. 

In which, Diluc grapples with his infatuation with you whilst competing with Venti for your heart.

part one (current), part two (coming soon)

It was just a scratch.

That’s what you keep telling him. But that stoic redhead, that formidable and powerful protector with an aloof aura, that refined nobleman with a furtive allure, which inevitably reels in admirers no matter where he goes, seems to have quite the stubborn streak. Annoyingly so.

When you catch him in moments like these, you ponder if you’re talking to the very owner of the the Dawn Winery, if you’re gazing at the same intimidating Dark Knight Hero doused in twilight, wielding a claymore that reflects the galaxies along his blade, or if this is this is the Fabled highly-esteemed knight of Ordo Favionus that heralded great praise amongst the citizens of Mondstadt. However, the one who stands before you is everything but that. In this moment, his accomplishments, experience in battle, and his scars don’t matter.

They don’t matter - not when you stumble into the Angel Share, skin bruised, gasping for air, desperate for it to enter your lungs, and a rich stream of crimson running down your forehead. Diluc almost loses his composure. Almost. With fast strides, he envelops your hunched form into his careful embrace, guiding you slowly to the oak counter.

Teetering between two planes of consciousness, you giddily chuckle into Diluc, grateful, oh so grateful he had a late shift at the Angel’s Share despite his colleagues’ futile attempts to get him to return to his estate. Diluc’s one to take pride in his appearance and his tavern. He certainly doesn’t like the trail of blood left on the mahogany floors and he would normally be displeased with the vermillion specks that litter his pristine jet black coat. Despite all of that, the only thing on his mind is to make sure your injuries are not life-threatening. Propping you on the counter, he has to firmly grip your shoulders to keep you from swaying. Removing his coat, he allows your head to fall against his shoulder.

The scent of rosemary, cinnamon and grapes that exudes from his figure puts your mind at ease. The full throbbing in your head slowly vanishes as his very presence brings you peace. Diluc can feel your tensed muscles relaxing in his hold, taking advantage of your averted gaze to allow the corners of his mouth to crease upwards. Swiftly, he cards his fingers through your hair, attempting to find the source of the blood that steadily flows along the side of your face. Ah, he realises. It’s a mild head injury. Ghosting his fingers down your arm, exposed as the shirt you adorn is tattered with gnarly gashes and stained with scarlet, his touch is like a flickering fire against your skin. You lean into his being, throwing yourself into his whims like coal in a furnace. You wish he could melt you as he exposes this new side of him, like a moth drawn to a flame.

“I have to treat your wounds. What on earth happened? Was anyone with you when you were attacked?”. His voice booms in the silent tavern. Your headache seems to dissipate with each vowel and consonant that tumbles out of the redhead’s mouth. His mind racing with worry and thoughts about your safety makes you just as giddy as the adrenaline rush you felt earlier fighting the horde of hilichurls at the camp near Stormbearer Mountains.

You smile at his concern. “It’s just a scratch.” It really feels like it is. The pain seems to be nothing in comparison to how Diluc’s clutch sets your figure ablaze, how his breath along the length of your spine sears your nape, or how his intoxicating perfume infiltrates your senses. You feel at peace. The serene, sweet and serendipitous moment you’ve been longing to share with the man, ferocious on the battlefield but warm and pleasant like a fire licking the tops of a stone hearth. In his bar, you snidely think to yourself, it’s only natural that you’re drunk on him.

Eventually, the door swings open with a resonant bang that echoes throughout the tavern. It sharply cuts through the intimate, dreamlike and almost illusory sphere you feel like you’ve hallucinated if not for Diluc’s fiery gaze grounding you, pulling you out of the clouds and reminding you he’s here in the present moment. He’s here with you. The redhead’s garnet orbs snap towards the individual emerging from the night. Flickering oil lamps illuminate his form briefly before he trundles into the Angel’s Share.

Diluc can’t help but scoff. ‘It’s that bard again’, he confirms distastefully. His drunken misadventures flash before him and he’s thoroughly displeased with the tracks of mud he oh so graciously leaves as he swiftly treads towards you. “My Dandelion, I’ve finally found you! Those Mitachurls were no match for me, with an arrow or two, they were done through!”

Venti’s nonchalance is appalling, Diluc is once again reminded. With quick movements, he snatches the bandages and saline he stores for his midnight escapades and arranges them on the counter. “What are you doing here?”, he hisses, paying no mind to how he doesn’t mask the irritation evident in his vexed cadence.

“Isn’t it obvious? We were out having an adventure! And where adventurers like my sweet Dandelion go, storytellers must follow!”

“Then could you explain what exactly I’m looking at.” It’s not a question - not when it’s said with such authority that makes your knees weak. Venti quirks his lips in a sheepish grin, fully aware he’s in for a rigorous scolding by the very Master of the Dawn Winery. He didn’t see the full extent of your wounds but he’s assured by Diluc’s capability in patching you up. He titters, lightly like his laughter is air itself, “it would be easier to tell you through song! Hehehe, it seems that I have a captive audience. Though it seems that it will cost you, Master Diluc, a pretty Mora… what do you say I exchange my tale with a glass of your finest Dandelion Wine?”

Diluc’s used to the Windborne Bard’s petty schemes. He doesn’t really know how you handle him, seeing as to how he’s constantly attached to you. Levelling a glare towards Venti, he conveys his frustration and reluctant acquiescence. A victorious smirk flashes across the bard’s face. He’s taken the bait, he thinks, it’s good that his beloved trump card is present.

Your very being places Diluc under a spell, and he can’t help but feel that he and the Darknight Hero are so alike in that aspect. Venti crafts the story of your endeavours through his melodic voice. The harmony builds swathes of fields and expansive lakes, the melody transforms into terrain and pulls clouds into the sky, and the lyricism paints two figures fighting alongside each other in unison, almost as one. The resounding notes he plucks from his lyre and the staccato narrate the unfortunate scenario you both found yourselves in. The lyrics unravel and amongst the gentle waves of the thrumming lyre, a scene surfaces.

Venti’s melody masterfully transforms the day’s events into a wave of images that crash softly into the sandy shores of the minds of any listener. From the tide, a sepia woven picnic basket filled with an assortment of untouched food surfaces, a ruby gingham blanket unfurls, and two individuals emerge.

The afternoon sky is dyed in hues of orange and yellow whilst delicate pinks are smeared across a canvas of clouds. As viridescent foliage slices through the rays of sunlight, Venti is beautifully bathed in the glow of the sunset. He’s absolutely ethereal. The beams of light cast fleeting shadows over his content face, making his turquoise pupils sparkle and his grin seem even more breathtaking than usual. You can’t help the way your heart swells as you gaze upon him. You can’t help how his smile is downright infectious. You can’t help how he makes you feel like you’re drifting, like you’re flying and gliding through the same clouds you both admire from the foot of the immense oak tree at Windrise.

It’s not strange to have these reactions towards your best friend, right? It’s not abnormal to think that the head resting against your thigh has always meant to be there. It’s not unusual to be perfectly at peace with someone your heart and soul is connected to. That’s because he’s your most beloved companion. That’s because he’s your most trusted confidante.

And that’s all there is, right?

Reaching down, you brush the navy locks that have been disturbed by a gust of wind. Slowly, you push them behind his ear, caressing the side of his face as you pull away. Briskly, his fingers nimbly and tenderly clasp around your wrist, bringing your hand back to his cheek. That cheeky bard, you think, as he nuzzles into your open palm and your heart leaps as his lips graze against your skin for just a second.

Diluc listens intently to every note that floats in the tavern as gently cleans your wound with a warm and damp cotton towel. The first verse of Venti’s song is filled with hums of tranquil conversation, the second overflowing with innocent laughter and light giggling, and the third mellows as fatigue overcomes the two figures and they succumb to the spell of drowsiness that washes over them.

When the bridge rolls around, it’s turbulent. His sonorous voice recounts of a crystalline sphere suddenly materialising, drastically shattering the quietude of the scene, and drowning it into murky depths. Diluc can vividly visualise it, the sharp shattering of falling ice, the crackle and roar of fire being throttled through the air, and the piercing whistle of an arrow. He closes his eyes and briskly swipes a swab of alcohol against your head. Busying his mind and hands with tending to your wounds, he tunes out the bard’s voice. He knows how the rest goes. Being in countless battles, he knows the ruthless nature of the creatures that emerge from the abyss. He’s aware of the danger they pose. He understands the pain they are capable of inflicting.

But, even if he’s well aware of all of that, it doesn’t stop his desire for retribution to flare up in the back of his mind. It doesn’t help how his hands want to reach out to his sturdy claymore, that’s already witnessed the wrath of his burning hatred, his insatiable lust for a just punishment and his scorching thirst for vengeance.

‘Later, I’ll deal with them’, he reassures himself, quelling the hot molten fury within him that threatens to boil over. ‘After all’, he wonders whilst looking into your eyes that twinkle in the dull glow of the tavern, ‘I have someone more important to take care of right now’. His heart clenches at the whimper that tumbles past your lips involuntarily.

Brows furrowing, his left hand falls to cup your cheek. He’s not used to this. He’s not used to comforting others nor is he used to being in such close proximity with your irresistible and your utterly beguiling presence. Around you, the air of professionalism he yields and his cool exterior slowly erode as you peer innocently, curious as to his next move, with a gaze he selfishly desires is only reserved for him. His glove is cold against your skin but the heat that emanates from his hands beneath the leather and the tenderness of his grasp is plenty a distraction from the debilitating throbbing coming from your wound. Absent-mindedly, his thumb strokes the tops of your cheeks as he tilts your head higher. You feel content in his hold. You can’t help but think about how his hands would feel like in yours. You can’t help but think about how perfectly his fingers would mould between yours, intertwining and flawlessly slotting into yours like you were made for this, like you were destined for each other, like you were two halves tethered by some invisible yet potent force. Patiently, you watch as he unravels the white gauze. With dexterous and nimble movements, it is wrapped around your injury, round and round, and once Diluc deems his handiwork satisfactory, he deftly fastens it.

He takes a step back even if he’s reluctant to place any distance between you. Although, he steels himself and gives you space to breathe (ironic, since you would gratefully indulge in his existence like it’s the very air that you inhale). He’s terrified he’ll grow ravenous for your company, that he’ll grow addicted to your touch or he’ll never be quenched by anything but by drinking in your very aura.

Clambering onto the countertop, Venti seats himself beside your form. Cupping your cheeks, he whispers amiably, careful not to aggravate your thudding headache: “Ahh, you’ve done an excellent job tending to my Dandelion, Master Diluc. Shall I reward you with a performance or - ah! I see you’ve forgotten one of the most important tasks, how careless of you!”. His turquoise eyes glint mischievously and a knowing smile carves itself onto the bard’s face before it’s coyly hidden by his sleeve.

Suppressing the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose at Venti’s antics, Diluc hisses: “What could I have possibly forgotten that someone like you would know?”. As he exasperatedly responds, he catches a whiff of the alcohol that dances on Venti’s tongue.

He exhales audibly. He should have locked up the other bottles of Dandelion Wine in the cellar. Inspecting the empty containers strewn about an isolated table in the tavern, he inquires “What exactly did I miss? And pray tell what can you actually discern when you are this drunk?”.

A light flush dusts the apples of Venti’s cheeks as he states, as though it’s blatantly obvious: “Silly of you to forget, Master Diluc! Of course, you need to kiss it better!”.

Flinching from the bard’s sly words, the redhead can’t help how it flusters him, the tips of his ears are set alight as the flames spread down his neck. Diluc’s rational train of thought abruptly stops as Venti’s jovial exclamation ignites a bomb under its tracks, incapacitating him momentarily. The rosy blush the bard sports must be infectious, he thinks, coolly quelling the blood rushing to his cheeks and slowing down the beating of his erratic heart.

“Hehe, do you need a demonstration, great Dark Night Hero?”. That cheeky brat.

Sending Diluc a playful grin but glancing behind his shoulder with a devilish glint flashing in his optics for a millisecond, Venti presses his lips to your temple. Something deep within his core flares up upon witnessing the intimate moment shared between the bluenette and you. Something buried in his being abhors seeing the way the contact puts you at ease. He loathes how Venti latches onto instantly the second he tears his eyes away from you. He despises how his hands creep up to your shoulders to soothe the kinks and knots embedded in your back. He detests how Venti is so familiar with your physical responses to his experienced touch.

His crimson eyes narrow at the way the bard and you lock gazes in the dimly-lit tavern - like you’re the only two who co-exist in this space. Venti ensnares you into the same reverie that Diluc had previously trapped you in.

His fists slowly clench at the way his index finger pushes a strand of hair back behind your ear. The Windborne bard’s very actions serve as a reminder that he could never achieve the same familiarity and intimacy that the bluenette shares with you, he could never stand by your side as a confidante, whose soul is fated to be tied to yours, and he could never bare his heart to you and force upon you his affections, his thoughts of you and the scars he hides under his clothes and underneath his very flesh and bone.

He doesn’t want to impose a love that you may never reciprocate. He doesn’t want to take you away from something you might have been waiting for in this life, your past life or any future lives you may live.

Despite the brief feeling of despondency that overcomes his being with these intrusive ideas, the redhead feels emboldened. From his sources, that is, Kaeya being rather too interested in the romantic endeavours of his colleague, the Cavalry Captain had informed him that you were yet to be formally courted, which is what can be implied from his originally rather crude comment that you were “on the market”.

Suddenly, something flickers within him and his crimson eyes are set aflame with newfound determination. He knows that you could feel the fire of his infatuation from the small distance you shared prior to the bard’s arrival, and that you were receptive to his tender touch and how the embers that emitted from his warmth mutually affected you both. Assuredly, he quells the inferno that is on the verge of overflowing and spilling onto his last vestiges of rationality, a process that has undeniably proved hard to control no thanks to the bluenette who contently, and rather smugly, burrows into you like the cat who got the cream.

Finally, it seems, Venti reluctantly pulls away from your gentle embrace and flashes that impish smirk once again. It only appeared momentarily but it was long enough for Diluc to catch the mischievous glint in those vexatious aqua orbs. It was enough for the nobleman to perceive that silent declaration - a beginning of an unspoken competition between the two males to compete and vie for your affections.

Of course, the Darknight Hero has never been one to turn down a challenge. Especially not one where the prize is securing the claim to your heart.  

‘If that is how it will be, I accept your challenge. I hope you’re prepared Barbatos, for this means war’.

(to be continued)

[blazedrawsstuff]

The night was perfect...A camping date under the stars. As the fire died down, Blaze went into the woods to find firewood. Her boyfriend, Kenji waited for her return...and waited.

Yet there was no sign of his lady. Fearing the worst, Kenji ran off into the woods to find her.

If only the lovebirds new about the place they set up camp. For awaiting Kenji was not his beloved...But a Hatterene.

One that was waiting for him....

Expecting him...

-------------

Aka the most British looking Senpai so far. Dude looks like he's about to go golfing, or solve cases with Professor Layton /lh /j

Anyways, here's Blaze and Kenji's version of FNF: Lullaby. Or I guess this would be "Friday Night Funkin: Silence"? Anyways, as the description suggests, instead of taking place in Kanto, it takes place in Galar. And instead of the lovebirds having to face with a fucked up Hypno. They got to contend with a fucked up Hatterene.

A Hatterene that doesn't take kindly to people shacking up in her territory... By the end of the night, both of them WILL believe in the Forest Witch...

Main Week Songs

Safe and Sound (Safety Lullaby Galar Mix)

Gone Unkempt (Left Unchecked Galar Mix)

Raging Goddess (Lost Cause Galar Mix)

[sourpatchys]

Chapter three: Blood

Time: Quarry

Rating: nothing explicit. Mentions of walkers and death.

Word count: 1.3k

Summary: a magnetic pull, and a nights rest. The two survivors are growing closer by the day.

A/n: this took much longer than I had hoped for! I’m going to try my hardest to get the next chapter out much faster haha, hopefully the wait was worth it!

Guidelines masterlist Daryl!Masiterlist

The camp was in utter ruins when Daryl had returned.

Walkers were clawing their way into rib cages, ripping away the flesh and bone— screams echoed throughout the hills and trees, begging— pleading for help.

Any negativity Daryl had, from Merle, the weird fucking nursing home or the pieces of shit he had to live with— it all fell away in an instant. He was firing, shaking, even screaming— his body moved on pure instinct shuddering in a way he had never experienced before.

He was fighting for his life— for the life of others. Ripping arrows through the air, his eyes frantically searching for an end.

The way here was calm and quiet. He was pissed— angry and upset. His brother was gone and all he had to show for it were the people who left him to die. Walking home on an uneven trail, kicking the rocks under his shoes, cursing any god that would listen for ruining any life he had left.

The closer they got— the more Daryl started to pick up his speed. His muscles began to tense, a hot swarm of fire ants lighting up under his rugged skin. Something in his mind— in his body— started screaming, yelling at him, telling him to move faster. It felt as though he had lost all control, his legs were moving before he could even wonder why.

The sun had set by the time the small misfit group had returned, its burning rays hidden under the horizon, leaving terror in its wake.

He wasn't sure exactly what he was trying to accomplish— smashing in the heads of the dead with anything he could get his blood crusted hands on. At points he used nothing but the soles of his boots, caving in the skulls of the monsters he'd come to despise over the passing few months.

The blood was warm, washing over his burning skin like a safety blanket. Each pass of his fists, his axe or his bow, lightening the load of horror little by little.

It felt as though it had lasted hours, the adrenaline making every move he took feel slow— as if he were a movie on rewind— unable to reach the end.

Daryl's skin was sticky, his face was hot and his heart felt as though it was going to rip out of his chest. He was looking for something— static electricity was shooting through his brain like lightning, unwilling to stop, forcing his body to move— refusing to let him rest for even a moment.

His vision was blurry, fading lines together— the overwhelming darkness of the night only worsening his disheveled state. It felt as though he were having a panic attack, unable to catch his breath, chest caving and screaming for the release of pressure.

The moment he saw the group, huddled together and checking for injuries— something in him stilled.

He wasn't sure what did it, be it the proof that there were survivors, or the overwhelming pull of knowing everything was finally over— but the static left, replacing itself with cotton.

—

The attack on the camp alerted everyone to the dangers of staying still— something had to change and it had to change fast.

You weren't sure if you had ever felt that level of panic in your life— the overwhelming feel of being alone— forgotten.

It didn't make sense— nothing about your mind or your body's reaction to the chaos made any fucking sense. You understood the fear— the urgency of safety and the pull of death.

But why— why did you feel so utterly alone? You weren't alone— not even slightly. The entire group was with you, witnessing the carnage and bloodshed. They all saw Amy being ripped apart, her curdled screams for help. They all saw the ripped muscles and pointless deaths. Hell— they protected you! Killing any of those vile things that got near you.

Your mind was in a haze— unable to focus or understand. You felt like a child lost in a grocery store. The yelling of those who had left, running into camp from their mission and joining you in your fight for survival— it was the only thing that threw you out of your mangled state of mind.

Sleep did not come easy that night. The corpses of your newfound friends still littered the outside, rotting into the ground and killing the grass below.

Your pillow felt as if it were filled with rocks, your blanket cut into your skin like needles— and the ground felt twice as hard.

Part of you wondered how Daryl was doing.

Perhaps it was a way for you to distance yourself from the carnage, but you still couldn't help but wonder if he was okay. Merle hadn't come back that night, his presence erased entirely, never to be spoken of again.

Sighing in defeat, you sat up, ripping your needle pointed blanket away from your clammy skin and making your way towards the outside world. You didn't allow yourself a gander. Your eyes focused solely on your slippered feet, making a slow crawl towards the bright blue tent in the other side of camp.

The smell that plagued your nostrils was almost enough for you to call it quits— the undeniable rot and decay rising from the soil. Even without the visuals, it was impossible to ignore.

But the sight of that closed up tent door kept you right on track. It was like a pull— a magnetic connection that you couldn't ignore.

"Daryl?" You whispered, your index finger bent, tapping lightly on the closed up mesh. "Are you up?"

There was shifting behind the blue door before the zipper eased its way down, the small sound echoing through the hills, daring you to make another.

“What do you want?” His voice was gruff, his southern lull deeper than you had ever heard it before.

“I wanted to see how you were doing?”

His milky blue eyes looked you up and down, casting a spell of unease, unsure of what to make out of your nightly visit.

“Why?” He asked, finally removing his eyes from you and looking around at your surroundings. Unzipping the door all the way and stepping back. “Get in here, you don’t need to be out there.”

Thankful for the separation, you stepped inside, plopping yourself down on the hard floor and crossing your legs— unsure what to do with yourself in the new environment.

Daryl sat himself across from you— mimicking your own actions from the day before, as he turned on his bedside lantern, placing it between the two of you.

“I couldn’t sleep— I got to thinking about you.”

“Oh yeah?”

His eyes were unreadable, staring right through you.

“You never answered me.”

Grunting, the archer leaned back in his hands, pulling his eyes away from you once more, choosing instead to look up at the makeshift ceiling.

“M’fine. Couldn’t sleep either.”

It was silent after that, though it wasn’t unpleasant. You found yourself calmer than you could ever recall being before, sitting tight in a broken down bright blue tent.

Feeling more comfortable, you allowed yourself to stretch, pulling your legs out from underneath you as you adjusted.

“Tomorrow— whatever we end up doing, and wherever we end up— can I leave with you?”

He stared at you, unsettled— confused by the request. Though, he couldn’t find it in himself to deny you.

“Whatever.”

A warmth unlike any you had ever felt seeped into your skin, glowing and trailing along through your veins. A smile— small yet true— made its way onto your face, a gleam of hope finding itself inside you once more.

“Thank you Daryl.” You beamed, placing your hand on his knee.

Soon enough you found yourself drifting, your eyelids growing heavy as your face began to tingle. It didn’t take long before your once restless night became something else entirely.

Next chapter

[kakyoinisgay]

Ladies, gentlemen and enby folks Meet Aleksander, my rdr oc (You can read more about him below)

EARLY LIFE Aleksander Kazimierz Kamiński (Russified name: Alexei Igorovich Lebedev) is a Pole with Ukrainian roots (his great-grandmother was Ukrainian) born near Wieluń on April 6, 1881. Olek's family came from a wealthier peasantry. His family made a living by harvesting and selling cattle. As a child, his father taught him to play the violin, which was an instrument passed down from generation to generation. Aleksander lived with his father (Ksawery), mother (Anna) and brother (Adam), who was 10 years older. Adam fought for the good of the fatherland, plotted against the authorities and taught his children to write and read Polish. Olek saw his brother as an idol, someone he could jump into the fire for. What impressed 13-year-old Olek was the determination and devotion Adam showed, how he was able to stand by his convictions to the end and give himself to something. Unfortunately, Adam was caught by the tsarist authorities and deported to Siberia. Even as a 13-year-old, Alexander knew that Siberia was the end for a Pole and that Adam would never return home. Two years after Adam's arrest, Olek's family, fearing for their safety, left for the US. They left the house to Ksawery's brother so that he and his wife could take care of it until their return from the US.

It wasn't easy in the U.S., Olek and his family had to learn English quickly after arriving in America. They found a small house near Rhodes. They slowly began to return to their lives, but the new country was not very kind to them. Hunger began to set in, so 16-year-old Olek began to take on small jobs, such as cleaning stables and working with cows, but the money he received was not enough to feed his family of three. So he started stealing. He stole everything: food, trinkets and jewelry. He later sold them to earn money for his family. He knew that stealing was wrong, but he knew that family was more important than morality and the law. At the age of 17, he left home in search of a better life, promising that with this choice he would give his family money for food and a later trip to Poland. So with a considerable sum of money, he headed north. That's when he bought his first horse, which he named Gustaw. Gustaw was a wonderful horse, a Hungarian half-breed with a calm nature. Olek loved him very much and crossed many plains with him, but unfortunately he ended up in the Colter area, where he had to make a decision. Either he or the horse would survive the harsh winter, so with tears in his eyes he killed Gustaw and ate his remains. Later, returning south in search of warmer areas, he buried what was left of Gustaw and moved on. He found himself in Valentine, where he bought a donkey from a man for a pittance. Olek named the donkey Jan Paweł and roamed the plains with him, hunting small animals and gathering herbs.

1899 At one point Olek came across the Van der Linde gang's camp, and thought he might sneak in and steal some food and trinkets if he could. Unfortunately, the 18-year-old's plans were ruined as he was caught stealing and captured. He tried to escape, biting and cursing everyone in his native language. When he managed to break free, he pulled out a hunting knife and threatened everyone one by one. Olek wasn't afraid of taller-than-himself and more armed men, he saw such an image every day while still living in Poland. He was ready to die, though in the back of his mind he didn't want to, knowing that his mother wouldn't survive the loss of her second son. Waving and threatening everyone with a knife, the rest tried to calm him down and communicate with him in English, especially when he took one of the members as a hostage. Olek didn't know what the rest were saying to him, he didn't understand English at the time and it was difficult for him to understand, let alone explain the things he wanted to do. Eventually in broken English he explained himself to the others, knowing that it might not save him, but it might buy some time for the escape that was approaching fast in the boy's minds. They let him go, hearing as the foreigner tried to explain the theft that was somehow supposed to save his life. Olek, unsure of what to say, offered to redeem his guilt by becoming an errand boy, and so he became one. Aleksander joined the gang, now taking on the role of the person who takes care of the duties around the camp and at times (if the situation required it) assisting on the missions. He felt at home in the camp and quite quickly began to form relationships with others, while continuing to read a lot and learn English. Everyone called him simply “Alex,” because when it came to fully introducing Olek, he preferred to introduce himself with his full name, which was quite a problem for most, especially with the pronunciation of the boy's middle name. He tried to teach the others the pronunciation of his middle name and surname, but this didn't work very well, so he gave up. Olek quickly took a liking to his new companions, and at every opportunity he was happy to tell them about his country, about how wonderful it is and how much he wished it would become independent and could be on the maps of the world. He talked about his family, his brother and the things that happened to his brother, but also about culture and traditions. On top of all of that, Olek loved to cuss at people and call them names, because he knew that no one would respond to him. Mainly, he explained that Polish curse words were words of common usage or nice words. Therefore, when Olek called someone names, the person thought the Pole was greeting him or complimenting him. During his time in the camp, Olek read a lot, mostly “forbidden books.” His favorite book was always “Dziady Part III.” Besides, he learned English all the time from a dictionary he bought for rubles when he was still living in Poland. Olek was curious, he liked to watch from afar what the rest of the gang was doing, no matter if it was standing guard or sharpening a knife, Olek was fascinated. Olek's main flaw was his vengefulness. The boy let himself be picked on up to a certain point, but when someone insulted his background or, God forbid, his dead brother, Olek took no prisoners. He mostly took it out verbally and physically, threatening with knives, name-calling and spitting (mostly in the face or into food). Despite his skinny posture and lack of musculature, Olek was quick in his actions and referred to himself as “ Sticky Hands Olek.” He was good at small thefts and the gang was impressed by this, as his skills paid off in contributions to the gang.

1902-1907 After the split of the gang, Olek became a bounty hunter, seeking out criminals, whom he caught like prey. He became a rotten man, disrespectful to the people around him, money-hungry. He was an alcoholic, a buffoon who did not reckon with other people's criticism. For three years he was active in a small group of people, being their leader and searching for bandits together with them. In the spring noon of 1905, Olek got into a shootout with one of the groups, whose leader was wanted in a couple of states with an arrest letter. In this shootout he was shot in the eye, miraculously surviving at the time and was taken to the nearest doctor. Two of his friends from the group didn't survive, they were wounded to the point where they could not be saved. Olek saw this as a second chance from fate to be someone better. He took a job at the sheriff's station in Valentine as his deputy, it was there where, in 1907, he met Sadie Adler once again. Olek was happy to see her and congratulated her on her better life, which she had made for herself after the breakup of the gang. He was curious if the rest of the members were still alive and well. Not long after this meeting, Olek ran into John, with whom he had always had a peculiar and rocky relationship. He was happy to see that Marston had finally stopped being a “moron” and took to the task of building a household for his family.

1909-1911 In 1909, Olek went to Mexico in search of Javier. He looked for him for a solid year, asking the locals and people who might have had any connection to him, with no results. The Pole slowly began to give up, but fate didn't let him down. He found his old friend, a man in whom he saw his dead brother, changed by the many things that happened after the gang broke up. Olek looked at him with pity, feeling bad about what the gang breakup had done to him and seeing a completely different person. Their conversation went on peacefully, despite their concerns that one of them would get injured. They kept in touch with each other, rebuilding their relationship, but not for too long. In 1911, Olek lost any contact he had kept with Javier during the few months he spent in Mexico. In an attempt to reconnect with him, he teamed up with John, who was also looking for his “old friend” at the same time. The Pole gave Marston one condition, “if you find him first, don't kill him, I want to talk to him one last time. Then do whatever you want with him.” After finding Javier, John informs Aleksander that he has found their “old pal”. Olek quickly arrives at El Presidio, calmly says goodbye to Javier, gives him a hug, and wishes the two of them would reunite in another life (1911 Olek's lore is written from the perspective of the option, where Javier is not shot, but tied up by John)

LIFE AFTER EVENTS IN GAMES After his adventures in Mexico, Olek returns to Rhodes and stays in the house his family left behind. After some time, Olek learns about the demise of his former gang mates. Before leaving to Poland in 1914, at last Aleksander meets Jack and says goodbye to him, believing that his life will become much better and he will never have to return to the past. In 1915 Olek recruits himself into the German army and fights alongside the rest of the Poles. After World War I, he gets married, but doesn't live for long. On February 1, 1920, he dies of Spanish flu after fighting the disease for several weeks.